WarCraft: The Crimson Tome
by CaliforniaTD
Summary: Lionel Darktree, a human agent takes a job from a mysterious guild of librarians to recover pieces of a demonic book known as the Crimson Tome. Little does he know that others seek the tome as well. Rated M Violence, profanity, and sexual themes
1. Blood of a Mage

_**This happens to be a fic that has been in the works (which I update and see to on and off in unpredictable intervals), and I finally decided to post it here because the internet forum I originally put it turned blind eyes to it, and few people read it. I suppose I have better chances here, so doesn't hurt to try, eh?**_

_**A note. This takes place a couple of years after WarCraft III. I have never played World of WarCraft so expect minimal reference and a few locations not present in it. Enjoy.  
**_

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**ONE - Blood of a Mage**

_Tol Borad_

_Three months into the second war_

The winded footman, clad in full fine iron plate, grasped the broadsword tight, yanking the blade out of the stagnant guts of the dead orc grunt, the greenskin's mouth open and drooling blood. Around him, lay the bodies of Alliance and Horde combatants, some lifeless, some piping their last breaths. The sky shone a dark amber, fortified by storm cloud cover in the direction of the sun.

A man, clean shaven with long hair, who looked to be in his early thirties, clad in blue and purple garments with an adamantine gorget draped around his throat, and a staff in his hands, stepped over the bodies and surveyed the land around them. A stalwart lieutenant stepped by his side, clad in armor more ornate than the enlisted men. He carried a bloodied longsword in his left hand, and a half shredded shield in his right. "Archmage Conrad!" The officer called out. Instantly, the mage looked to his left. "I have lost seven men under my command today… are you certain this cretin will show up?"

Conrad didn't answer at first, and stared up in the sky. The gaseous ceiling of the world was highly menacing and discouraging. The arid island terrain around them, already dry and desolate, was illuminated with a devilish orange, eerie enough that the rocks seemed to clutter together in fear. Conrad looked down, patting a hand down on the officer's pauldron. "I have to let him show up."

"Archmage! Lieutenant! You might wanna have a look at this!" An elven archer shouted from the shingle. Conrad treaded lightly in the direction of the elf, who knelt over a slain orc commander, two arrows stuck in his chest. The archer stood up, "Look at the markings! Twilight's Hammer clan! You were right, they're among them."

Conrad nodded. "Then we must be wary." He spoke, quickly turning away. "I'll be willing to gamble that he's just over the next moor." The footmen and archers stared him down strangely.

"And what would cause you to stir that assumption, mage?" The lieutenant asked.

Conrad looked back. "Because I can sense him." He spoke, then turned, attempting to climb the shingle.

From the mist off the shore, toward the southeast, three silhouettes showed up, two supple, and one massive. One of the archers was the first to spot this. Seconds later, color and clarity were visible in the figures in the water. Two destroyers and a juggernaut.

"ORCISH SHIPS!" An archer yelled, rallying his squad and making way toward the shingle. Loud booms blared in the distance, followed by persistent screeching.

The sand around them exploded, the rocks were shot into dust and rubble. A non explosive cannonball tore a footman's leg off just below the knee as he laid on the ground afterward, screaming in shock. An incendiary round from the juggernaut exploded no less than a foot near the lieutenant, setting him alight and quickly burning the armor off his body, and the skin off his bones.

Feral war cries sounded from the opposite direction, another unit of orcish warriors sprinting forth to meet the human invaders. Conrad looked to the sky as he knelt down out of harm's way. He held his staff high, the pyramid like crystal in the head emitting a green light. The staff began to shake, and a bright green light shot from the top into the air, illuminating the sky.

A minute passed, the horde infantry slowing considerably due to a stray cannonball that landed on a troll axe thrower. The ships continued their bombardment, using their nearly limitless ammunition. Two more alliance soldiers had already been killed by well placed explosive rounds, and the fire wasn't relenting.

Conrad, as he predicted, spotted two figures that seemingly appear from over the roof of a cloud, and descended from there on toward the orcish flotilla.

On board the port destroyer, several orcish sailors lifted their heads toward the sky. "GRIFFON RIDERS!" the captain yelled, striking a few of the idle sailors and ordering each to take aim with the anti air guns. They stood in the middle of the deck, letting loose preloaded light balls of pressure sensitive explosive in the air.

A cannon ball exploded near one of the griffons, slipping some shrapnel in the side of the creature, not even enough to annoy it, and it's rider guided the beast downward out of the way of a second. After preforming a sort of barrel roll mid-altitude, the rider swung under handedly a storm hammer which flew straight an narrow in the middle of the deck, exploding in a blinding blue light, forcefully ejecting several sailors off the deck and causing two cannons and their ammunition to explode on deck, taking a piece of the sails, a portion of the hull, and a few sailors with it.

The other rider flew in at a high altitude, swinging the hammer down, the head of the weapon remaining straight, and leaving a volatile trail of electricity behind it. It slammed into the command bridge of the juggernaut, chopping it's captain in half and collapsing the roof onto itself. The other rider swung in from the smoke of the destroyer and threw a second hammer along the bow of the juggernaut, hitting one of the massive frontal cannons, which erupted in a fiery explosion, and took the other two guns with it.

From the shore, the alliance soldiers cheered. Even the footman with the severed leg managed to grin and let out a supportive yell of gratitude. Afterwards, the orc infantrymen jumped off the edge of the shingle, and assaulted the alliance troops. One orc leapt on top of an elven archer, smashing his head to pulp with a war hammer. Another orc, dived toward a footman, who lifted his shortsword, letting himself be impaled through the neck.

There was an orc that stood out from the others, far more clothes than the scantly clad orcish warriors that sacrificed armor for mobility. He sported a beard and wore a magnificent robe, the upper segments red and fading into orange the lower it stretched. A large chain around his shoulder suspended a heavy tome. He pointed forth. "Eradicate them! Bring the mage to me!"

Conrad turned his head around, his brows furrowing as he spotted the orc at the edge of the shingle. He stood up, and quickly headed the opposite direction, planning to circle around to more even ground.

The fighting was now on the beach, the soldiers locked in melee combat, the footmen cautiously defensive, and the grunts expectantly aggressive. A footman with a halberd was viciously axed to death by two grunts, and both of them ran to seek other targets. A well placed arrow in each of their necks stopped them in their tracks, one dropping after the other as they let out a twisted gurgle of death. The elven archer that felled them quickly began to notch another arrow. His action was cut short when a throwing axe was lodged deep across the top of his scalp. His eyes crossed as blood erupted from his head, and he fell.

The troll axe thrower that perpetrated the killing of the archer grabbed another axe from his sash, flipping it in his hand and ready to toss the weapon at another enemy before a bolt of fire burnt through his forehead, charring his brain. The creature still stood, his legs trembling before a jab from the bottom of a staff finally grounded him. Conrad stood over the corpse, his hand hovering over the head as it enchanted his own hand with a cold energy. He moved his hand away, his fingers spread as bolts of ice shot out of the air.

Two orcs and another troll that were charging down the mage met several sharp ice particles that cut into them, one three feet long that stuck into the shoulder of an orc, and exited his hip. The other bolts exploded near them, pelting the troll with extreme cold and freezing him in his steps. The orc, with ice bolts still lodged in his body, was met with a cold bolt that froze random segments of his body. He continued, his right leg giving way and breaking under him on the ground. He fell and his left arm snapped off, leaking blood onto the sand.

The mage sprinted away as more bolts of ice slammed into the ground, some smashing into horde warriors that were locked in combat with alliance soldiers, sparing the latter of further sparring. A human sergeant quickly hacked off the arm of an orc, his one handed axe falling with it. The orc look to the sky and screamed, the sergeant picking up another sword from a dead footman and managing a swift slash across his chest before relocating. Only three alliance soldiers were left standing, two human and one elven. They ran after Conrad who was being chased by two orcs, one chasing him from behind with an axe, and one charging from the front with a spear.

The rear was quickly felled with an arrow to the spine from the archer, and the front one's spear was parried by staff immediately before it struck Conrad. The staff was then brought from the side as it slammed under the jaw of the beast taking it off it's feet. One footman stepped over the spearman, and stuck his shortsword below the rib of the orc.

The mysterious orc's bodyguard, who carried a large polearm halberd rushed forth, only to be met with a longsword through the stomach and out his back. The sergeant who impaled him brought his shortsword, using his free hand to add force, and swung the blade across his neck, beheading him.

The other footman, right behind Conrad was met with a bolt of lightning to the chest, the armor enhancing it's effect as his internal organs and muscles fried and spasmed, grounding him. Another bolt of lightning was sent toward Conrad and bounced off his staff, and hit the elven archer, jarring his movements. Afterward, the orc let loose a heavy ball of lightning, that flew over Conrad and landed on the archer, producing enough charged electricity that it charred the clothes and flesh off of him, leaving blackened bones in a matter of seconds.

The orc managed a grin, turning his arm over and balling his fist. It trembled, the veins in his arms nearly popping out of the skin, turning a glowing crimson as his fingers unfolded, letting loose a red bolt of dark energy that hit the human sergeant. The footman burst in a gory explosion and rained all over the area, sprinkles of blood landing on the orc and Conrad.

Those two were the only two who remained alive on the shore. The mage stood up straight, one foot in front of him and his staff held horizontally in a defensive position. "Well met, warlock." He muttered. "I knew you'd wait for me."

The orcish warlock raised his chin, grinning a devious smile. "You'd be a fool to think I'd skip the opportunity, mage. Now can you kindly slit your wrists and spare me the trouble of spilling the blood myself?"

Conrad nodded, one corner of his mouth cracking a smile. "Fascinating, I didn't know you orcs harbored a sense of humor."

From off the shore, the final destroyer exploded, slowly tipping to the side. The juggernaut was on fire, it's captain killed and the decks filled with chaos and confusion. Conrad looked back, "The battle is won."

"As you know…" he spoke. "I need the blood of a mage to complete the circle. You're kind enough to travel all the way here to allow yourself to die by my hand. How generous." The orc's smile persisted, then suddenly sank into a frown. "Now, I'll let you take the first blow."

"Bad idea." Conrad muttered, swinging his staff forward and pointing it at the warlock, unleashing a bolt of fire from it's headpiece. The ball of flame slammed into the orc so quickly, that he had no time to react prior. He was knocked two feet and landed on his back. A shallow burn wound was on his abdomen. This would have been enough to kill a normal orc, but this warlock was well disciplined to resist even the toughest of magic.

Unfortunately, this mage harbored the toughest spells the arcane arts had to offer. Another bolt of fire shot forth, this time the warlock rolling out of the way as it exploded onto the ground, smoke and fire erupting from the spot. The warlock sprung to his feet, as another bolt of fire sang toward him, hitting an ethereal shield that appeared from the orc's palm just before it struck home.

The magic barrier detached from the contact of the warlock, it's remnants flying forward and breaking off in mid air, some of them hitting Conrad and knocking him off his feet. The warlock heaved a bolt of lightning from his hands, tossing it downward.

Conrad had defensive arts of his own, and he cast a reflective shield around his body, which the ball of lightning bounced directly off of him and soared back in the direction of it's caster.

Just moments after another magical barrier was materialized, absorbing some of the shock, the ball of lightning hit the warlock, who cried in pain.

As Conrad climbed to his feet, he saw the trembling and writhing orc on the ground, his robes charred and tattered as steam rose from his body. The mage huffed, and turned to the body of the footman the orc had electrocuted first, and grabbed his sword from his limp body. He turned and strode along the sand, the wind picking up as it blew his hair and robes parallel to the direction of the gust. The orc coughed and wheezed on the ground, looking back up at Conrad. He cracked a smile. "I didn't think it would be easy…" He said, half chuckling and half coughing.

Conrad shook his head, twirling the hold of the sword around to where the blade came downward from his fist. "I didn't figure a warlock like you to fight like an amateur." He brought up the blade. "The tome is now mine, safe away from your hands."

The warlock smiled. "The staff." The warlock said clearly, no sound of choking or coughing.

"What?" Conrad asked.

"Aren't you supposed to subdue me with the staff?" The orc asked.

Conrad's eyebrows ascended. He had made a grave mistake by not holding down the orc with the staff's magics, just like he was taught. The word amateur sounded in his head once again.

Forked lightning shot from the warlock's fingertips, the mage convulsing as he dropped the sword from his hand. With all his strength, the orc pulled a warblade from his belt, grabbed onto the Conrad's shoulder, and drove it between two ribs, and into his heart.

As the blade was still stuck in his chest, he opened the tome he carried and let the blood drip into the pages. "The blood of a mage." The warlock smiled, and the text on the tome seemed to glow a deathly purple.

Conrad collapsed beside him, and the air behind them crackled and fizzled. A bright flash of light, and the sound of electric currents erupted from mid air as a circular portal opened behind him. The inner spot turned into a void, and two yellow eyes glowed from within.

The warlock attempted to smile, but somehow, a great feeling of despair passed over him.

A very great deal of despair…

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_**If this was made into a movie, the title card would show up right about now. :)**_


	2. Lionel

**TWO - Lionel**

_Twenty years later_

_Dalton Arcane College_

_Republic of Kul-Tiras - (Human Nation)_

Though the human city of Theramore was more or less boasting with maritime and sea activity, it could never hold a brazier to the consistent naval and seafaring atmosphere of Kul-Tiras. Even at dawn the ships came and went, the sailors hopped out of their vessels to haul goods to the warehouses, visit taverns or brothels, then quickly depart in their leaky boats. Merchant vessels, frigates, corvettes, galleons, battleships, oil carriers, and the majority of the Alliance's sea power was anchored in the waters surrounding the Island Republic of Kul-Tiras.

Away from the streets and outer city limits, further north in the foothills, was a series of structures confined inside a hexagonal stone fence. This area was dubbed, Dalton Arcane College, founded by High Elves, built, and established just before they renounced their influence after the destruction of Quel'Thalas, their homeland. Within it, was a bell tower, an administration building, dormitories, a training pin, a library, and an arcane vault. A home away from home for the students there.

However, there was one building that seemed to hang low under the others, near the administration building. It would be a pyramid if it didn't have it's top cut off halfway. By glancing at it, one would not realize that it lead down beneath ground level. Many a time had a student been pondering it's existence.

Meanwhile at the training pin, a line of colored robes gathered to stand on the sidelines, gazing at into the thick of the training area. Some were nervous, some were bewildered.

The curved short blade struck with the mithril longsword, flat-siding and making a swift shrill clang that vibrated the air. The man behind the short blade, brought up a swift knee to his opponent's stomach driving him back a few steps, his heels skidding the sand rink and shooting grains around his ankles. The night elf with the longsword pointed his weapon in a ninety degree angle in front of his half crouched stance. Embers of rage seemed to tango within his eyes for obscure reasons. Obscure reasons as he seemed to want to kill the man in front of him and enjoy it. Logically, this wasn't a legit fight, though the guards were doing little to stop it. Instead, they stood and watched.

Lionel Darktree licked the corner of his mouth, where a cut from there to mid cheek was caused by the tip of the elf's blade earlier. He swished some spit and blood into his mouth then spat the mixture on the ground. He was a short man, 5.7 at least, sporting a thin dark beard that wrapped around his upper lip and down to his chin. His hair was around five inches in length, in the front, back, and on the flanks of his head, also a charcoal color. He did not seem very muscular at all, but in this case, looks were quite deceiving.

From within the crowd gathering, two figures in robes more ornate shoved their way through the mass of on looking spectators. One threw off his hood to enhance his field of vision at the two combatants, revealing a striking resemblance of a high elf. However, he was far too tall to be a full blooded half elf, and his eyes were not the bright glowing color, implying that he had human blood in him. The other robed figure was a human woman with slightly untamed fiery red hair and a confused look in her eyes.

The two combatants locked weapons once again, staring each other down. The night elf brought his body and weapon back a few steps with a brief burst of haste, and quickly returned with an angry vertical slash to the top of Lionel's head. The human quickly lifted his blade in the air, holding the blade part with his free hand to reduce the shock of the impact. The smash knocked him into a crouch, where he rolled backwards and kneeled in a defensive position. There were a few "oohs" and "ahs" from the crowd.

Immediately afterward, the night elf flung his left hand forward, the air buckling around it before two vines shot out of the ground and grasped his opponent's arms, pulling him downward. Lionel struggled to free himself, mostly focusing on not dropping his weapon. Finally, the third vine wrapped around his waist and yanked him down, his body hitting the ground and blasting dust into the air. His assailant, taking prideful steps toward his bound body. He stood directly in the sun, so Lionel's point of view made him a menacing looking silhouette in the paling light from the sun.

He witnessed him raise his longsword, Lionel then shut his eyes tight.

"I'm not frightening you, am I?" The night elf cynically spoke up, laughing and snarling simultaneously. "Or is it than the vines are too firmly restraining you?" He held out his free hand, snapping his fingers, with an adjacent near strangling of the vines, and Lionel opened his eyes, his teeth showing up in an angry expression that resembled a tortured smile. "Suck on this."

The air encompassing Lionel switched to a misty blue tint, the vines trembling as frost began to materialize on the vegetative magical entity. In less than two seconds, it was fully frozen, and the human burst from the frozen entanglements, which shattered in a brilliant mixture of water, ice, and clumpy bits of root. Immediately, Lionel's short blade was drove to the hilt through the ankle joint, the blade driving through bone, flesh, and finally deep into sand. The unintended audience began screaming and gasping at the sight.

The night elf released throes of agony from the top of his lungs as he focused every fiber of his being not to fall, as he was likely to jerk it out of place and cause more damage to his wound, and more pain as well. Lionel, lugged his body off the ground and grasped the elf's head firmly with a hand on each side of his head, his thumbs under his silver eyes.

The cries of pain diminished into tortured moans, as the elf's face began to pale, a thickening layer of frost painting his cheeks and around Lionel's hands.

"Lionel! CEASE!" A yell came from the crowd of scholars, this voice more authoritative than any other voice in the crowd. The frost growth desisted, and Lionel stared into the tortured silver eyes of the man, satisfied. His hands threw him backwards, off his working foot, and on impact the hinging of the fall dug the edge of the blade deeping into the top of his foot, inflicting more damage. The blade was swiftly yanked out of his leather shoe.

Lionel already had his back turned as the elf let out a resentful cry of near death. He was wiping his blade clean with his purple ribbon* he wore around his neck, the dark violet blood of the night elf concealed within the matching color. A college master elevated his position among the crowd on a stone pedestal, urging the students to disperse.

(*Purple garbs are worn by fundamental arcane scholars, blue for advanced arcane, red for netherworld sorcery, orange for alchemy, and green for elemental)

Lionel's heel hit the ground next to the half elf and the red haired woman, who displayed faint signs of bewilderment, but were likely to suspect the previous behavior.

"Master Falcone…" Lionel bowed his head, in front of the man, raising it suddenly, and stowing his warblade in it's scabbard. His brows relaxed as he looked at him. "I ask permission that you forgive the scuffle I had with Mister Starleaf…"

Falcone stood and stared, his brows tightening in retort. "I ask permission that you forgive yourself for soiling your ribbon."

Lionel was lead through the Obsidian building, taken down a line of stone stairs that led to a door, that was most likely made of heavy mithril. Each of the three put their hand on a crest in the center, marked by several small gems that circled around it, and the door opened quickly, their eyes set on a large library.

It was the inner sanctum of the Quadris-Tal-Carmona, or in the eastern dialects of Thalassian, stood for Order of the Cube. The area was illuminated by two fire elementals that stood near the door, guarding it from anything that would be perceived as a threat to the inner sanctum. Lionel could feel their searing heat on both flanks as he passed between them.

Each bookshelf was not only stacked neatly with several scrolls and tomes, but also had one or two slabs of runes near them. Lionel glanced at two Quadris-Tal-Carmona scribes reading and discussing over a slab, closer squinting revealed small glowing red text that appeared on the surface. Lionel turned his head to Falcone, who eyed him back neutrally. "Master, if you don't mind me asking…"

"You can read any book on the shelf from those slabs." He answered immediately. "Much of the order can concur that the texts in this hall of records are to be preserved as much as possible. The slabs are the perfect way to preserve the integrity of the tomes and scrolls, as they're very weathered by the ravages of time as it is."

"Gotcha." Lionel spoke almost silently. They wounded around a corner to an area illuminated by torches glowing blood red fire. Falcone waved the two away from him as he laid his palm on the knob, wrapping his hand around it and giving it a firm twist. The latch freed itself from the side of the wall and the door opened, revealing a room with many maps.

The three entered, Falcone seeming uninterested by being familiar with the room, while Lionel and the woman stared in fascination at their surroundings. Globes, maps, atlases, in all sizes were neatly organized in the room on tables and on the smooth obsidian walls. The room was illuminated by bright shaded lanterns hanging off the ceiling.

"Scribes, leave us." Falcone commanded in a respectful tone. Along the flanks of a table overlooking a map of Kalimdor, were two hooded scribes, who looked onward, and then wordlessly left the room, closing the door behind them. Falcone removed his hood once again, his stubby half elf ears and short dirt blonde hair showing.

Falcone was going strong at age one hundred and thirty four years old. His immortality was limited, as high elven males were the ones who carried the immortality gene, and his father was human whilst his mother was full blooded high elf. His immortality was limited to an estimated of five hundred years of life before age took him off his feet. Nevertheless, he was a mage, which extended his life a couple of hundred years.

Falcone stood at five feet and eight inches, his constant firm posture making him seem inches taller. He was never seen without a silver amulet around his neck which Lionel was never sure held any significance to his magic abilities. He had been Lionel's teacher ever since he enrolled in the academy. Falcone wasn't just any other mage master who droned on and on over the fundamentals of arcane magic. His influence was limited to the Order's sanctum, which was considered a great deal. He trained spies and assassins in the art of utilizing magics to assist them in their missions.

Stealth and magic were considered an odd combination, and the men who took it up were considered the nastiest and scariest in both the fields of espionage and magic. Lionel was no exception, and more than once did he get nervous stares from scholars in his exterior classes and lectures.

"This is amazing." Lionel scoffed, scouring an old map still in mint condition. "This is the battle map for the second war. All the troop movements, the land battles, the naval battles, the garrisons…" He seemed very excited about the particular map he was looking at, with dreaded fascination dancing in his eyes like burning wood in a twin socketed fireplace. His finger moved around to the west of Khaz Modan's ink outline, and pressed firmly on an island labeled "Tol Borad".

He looked back up to see that the red haired woman was eying the map along with him, who looked back up. Lionel faked a smile then turned his head to Falcone who was shuffling through a few world maps. "Mind telling me who this lass is?"

"Ellien Napier, mage of the Kirin Tor… or what's left of it…" She spoke silently. Lionel could only chuckle in response. Ellien seemed to recognize his affinity for dark humor, which Lionel assumed that she was told of him previously. Nevertheless he was more or less indifferent, if not annoyed by her presence.

Falcone threw down a map that obviously didn't suit whatever type he was set on recovering. He stepped over to a globe. A quarter of the globe was cut out. The world of Azeroth hadn't been completely explored, hence why a piece of the globe was missing. The continents of Kalimdor, Northrend and the Eastern Kingdoms were present on the brown, ornate globe. He grabbed the spoke and heaved it to the center of the room. After rubbing his hands together slowly, he turned his head and pointed. "Miss Napier if you will."

From her pocket, she produced a small scroll with a ruby on either side of the shaft, and set it on a table beside him. At first Lionel was puzzled, but then as his eyes studied the scroll, he found the "paper" segment to be alien to anything he'd ever seen before. It seemed to be a bendable cork board material, wrapped neatly with a metal buckle seal that held it in place. His eyes widened.

"This seems oddly…" He stammered. "Familiar."

"It's a demon scroll, written by Cho'gall's personal scribe, named…"

"Dar'Urek, was his name, I believe." Falcone spoke, studying the globe carefully pinpointing particular spots. Lionel was still unsure of what exactly he was doing, but he had a feeling it involved something that would take him off the continent.

Ellien didn't take her eyes off of Lionel and merely nodded at Falcone's comment. "From previous records, Cho'gall, the ogre and supreme mage of the orcish Twilight's Hammer Clan attempted to summon the Burning Legion during the second war. Supposedly…" She picked up the scroll and studied it. "…he succeeded in completing the ritual, but no demons arrived."

Lionel's ears sank backward, his hairline narrowing back on his head and his eyelids suspended in their sockets. He blinked more than once before managing a statement. "That was twenty years ago…"

Ellien nodded. "That scroll apparently is a report on what went wrong in the ritual. It is written in the orcish alphabet, though it is in code."

"The Twilight's Hammer Clan usually wrote all their letters and documents in code." Lionel retorted, picking up the scroll while his eyes ran down the sides of it.

"Except we've never even seen this kind of code before, we've deciphered all the others during the second war, from every clan…"

"So why haven't you deciphered this one?"

"Because this…" She began, reaching out her velvet gloved hand grasping the scroll from his hand and tapping the metal buckle. "This thing unlocked a week ago."

Lionel stood and stared for more than a minute. "By itself?"

"By itself." She repeated in confirmation, and cracked a smirk when it was clear he was showing signs of vague intrigue. She had succeeded in captivating his interest, and it was time to follow through to the plan. "We believe that another document scroll, a codebook, and Cho'gall's summoning tome still exist, and we need to find them."

"Lionel, the horde has been looking for these scriptures since the third war ended, and the burning legion was banished from this world." Falcone piped as he dragged the large globe closer to the other two.

"What interest could the horde possibly have with it? I thought the daemon summoning and apocalypse racking stuff wasn't part of orcish culture anymore." Lionel questioned walking around to the other side of the heavy oak table, and sitting against the flank.

"It isn't. The horde wants to obtain them and destroy the copies, and we have our reasons for not wanting to allow that to happen." Falcone replied, pressing his finger on certain points on the globe, a red glyph shining from under his finger as he marked a point on each.

"Mind enlightening me on the reasons?"

"Because one of the things the Order vows to do is to preserve all writings and records, no matter how dangerous or ugly they may be." He noted after placing all the glyphs. "These are the possible locations of the writings. It's likely that you won't find all of them in one place."

Lionel leaned forward. "Southshore, Northshire, Ashenvale, Mialan Mesa, Stranglethorn Vale…" He studied all the possibilities out loud. "Tol Borad…" He finished. "This isn't the first time I've been on a wild goose chase." He chuckled.

"You will search all of the locations in the Eastern Kingdoms, while Omaris Starleaf searches the Kalimdor locations… when he recovers."

Lionel cracked a smile. "Let's hope so."

Falcone stepped to the door and opened it, leaving no imply to follow him, though it was clear that he was supposed to.

Ellien looked back at Lionel. "Mind telling me why you got in a fight with Omaris?"

"Long story." He replied without even looking at her, stepping away from the table and making a beeline toward the door.

She walked over to the table and laying her finger on the map Lionel was studying earlier. "What happened at Tol Borad?"

Lionel stopped. "Conrad…" He sighed. "…my uncle… was killed there during the war."

Lionel stepped out of the sanctum and back into the sunlight. He eyes adjusted quickly, letting him get a glimpse of Falcone standing and staring at his direction.

"I suppose it is time I bestowed the mark of a full member of the Quadris-Tal-Carmona." He said almost in a whisper. His hand grabbed one side of his robe opening it, revealing two bulges in his inner breast pocket. His free hand grabbed them, his fingers pinches the sides of two black mithril fingerless gauntlets and holding them out in front of him. Lionel reached out his hands and grabbed them, clasping them onto his hands and adjusting the straps on them. He held his fisted hand as soon as his right hand was wrapped in one of the gauntlets, the thumb of his other finger pressed against a very small nipple like switch, and with a click a wide blade popped out of a bay just above the knuckle area.

"Your training has been satisfactory, you are now a journeyman of the Order." Falcone suggested. "As for your task, I pray that we can trust you in following orders, and not falling victim to your aggression and curiosity." He spoke. "If you do, I have no choice than to send Omaris and other members after you."

"God forbid." Lionel nodded, stepping past him and strolling into the campus. His next stop would be the harbor.

"And Lionel!" Falcone bellowed. Lionel stopped, not even turning his head. "A friend of yours will be there to assist you." There was a long silence afterwards. "I feel that we can trust him."

Lionel continued walking, dissapearing behind a flock of scholars returning to their dormitories after a class.

* * *

_**This ain't no Hogwarts! Incinerate those training dummies into oblivion. :D**_

_**Also brothers and sisters, rate and review.  
**_


	3. Flight of the Raven

**THREE - Flight of the Raven**

_Southshore, Lordaeron_

_Scarlet Crusade Frontlines  
_

Nothingness subsided, awareness took control of her consciousness.

Joanna opened her eyes, her lids dragging against a rough cloth, and a thick slippery fluid. Somehow she could see the faintest of light through the threads, not enough for a normal person accustomed to the light to witness anything half a foot away from where they stood. From above she could hear distant violent ambience.

Constrained from head to toe in fabric she assumed was worn from time, she turned over her hands which were near her hips, lifting her knees and pulling at the cloth with her fingernails. A few false starts, and a seam was split. It took her ten full minutes to undo all the wrapping, and she finally crawled out of the thick case of bandaging.

She looked to her right, seeing a dark room with rectangular gaps in the walls where other mummified corpses were wrapped in heavy bandaging, unlit torches hung on the walls, and the place reeked of dark energy. Immediately noticing that she was in one of these rectangular areas, she lifted her legs, kicking off the remains of the wrapping which hit the wall and fell in the floor, then swung her legs toward the ground and her feet hitting the floor, and the rest of her weight being suspended as she stood up.

She looked down, noticing she wore not an article of clothing, her pale skin wet with embalming fluid. Her short black hair was in a mess of tangles and curls when she felt it, but still she felt no signs of pain, and no signs of fatigue or tiredness as she stepped back into the world.

Joanna's hand wrapped around the knob, clasping it and turning it as the rusty hinges popped off and gave way. She took a step backward cautiously as the door hit the ground, and a flood of moonlight poured in. The light was patched with the silhouettes of armored figures in the distance, standing in thin snow.

Instinct took over, and quickly moved alongside the wall outside where the door was, almost in a trained fashion as the shadows quickly turned to see what happened. Before they knew it, the figure was gone.

"Brother Jared…" A voice was heard.

"I saw it too…"

"It exited out of that mausoleum."

"What was it?"

"Looked like a woman…"

"Stark naked?"

"Yeah."

Joanna suspended herself in a leafless tree by the mausoleum, staring down at the three. By the voices, there were two men and a woman in the group. The moonlight hit them, revealing sandy red clothing and armor. The woman carried a halberd, while both the men carried a steel maul. Listening closely could adulate sounds of violent conflict, metal on metal, and war cries in the deep distance.

More focused on climbing out of sight, she grasped at the branches above her, noticing that they were far too frail for her to climb. The next best thing she silent dropped down onto the ground below. The ground held some snow, which looked to had gone through a deal of melting before the sun had set. Beneath her bare feet she felt no signs of discomfort or painful cold.

"Hello? Wherever you are we are not going to hurt you!" The female voice said.

"We're part of the Scarlet Crusade! We can find you hot food and clothing. Trust us!"

Wordlessly and as silent as she could muster, she sprinted west, down a narrow path that lead to several fallen trees in the area. She turned her head, feeling the presence of someone drawing closer.

The scarlet crusade member was confident that this person she saw was just an innocent young woman, like she was when the plague hit, and thus she dropped her halberd behind her, hoping this lady could see her. "Hello? I'm a squire in the scarlet crusade! I urge you trust me! I can help y-" She was taken aback by the sounds of faint sobbing heard from down a narrow causeway. Squinting she saw a fully nude woman who looked no more than to be in her teens, huddling in the snow against a thin tree, covering her eyes.

"I'm on my way!" The crusader yelled, running down the rocky path, hopping over a tree stump and stepping over her, kneeling down. She took off her backpack, unbuckling her blanket from it and pulling it free, draping it over her shoulders. "It's going to be okay…" She said calmly, attempting to embrace her, hoping it could comfort her.

She removed her arm from her eyes, revealing large yellow glows in their sockets, the pupils of the young woman barely visible. The woman smirked while the crusader stared in horror, just before the blanket was thrown over her head.

Joanna kicked and punched at the disarmed crusader, her blows occasionally landing on armor, but mostly on flesh. The woman crusader's muffled groans and screams subsided as she was thrown against a tree. Joanna stepped toward the fallen crusader, yanking the blanket off of her, revealing blood and developing bruises on her face. She leaned down toward her, feeling for her belt as her hand grasped a dagger. The crusader opened her blackened eyes, enough to see her fate, her own blade, come down on her face.

Joanna pulled the bloodied blade free, and reached for her belt a second time, unfastening the buckle. Yells were heard east of her, cutting out her plan to steal the crusader's clothing and armor, and she sprinted away, the dagger still gripped tightly in her palm.

A few hours later, the moonlight was nonexistent, and from behind Joanna she saw that the sun was just now hatching out of the crust of the horizon. An open field that was half dirt and half snow, forest to the north, and lowlands leading to the beach to the south. Ahead of her was only a field of ingrown corn stocks that resembled the unwashed hair of a balding man's scalp. Between these patches of corn, she swore that she could make out a cabin from behind it.

She concluded that she might as well scavenge whatever she could from the house, but felt a dwelling sense of predestination as she noticed that her feet seemed to carry her here on her own. The cornstalks drew closer, as she brushed her body through it. On closer inspection she could confirm by sight that a cabin was in fact beyond the field she walked in.

Her foot hit something hollow, leathery, and stale. She looked forward for a bit, brushing the rotting stalk away that blocked her view from the ground. Her toes still stood on the forehead of a man, looking to be in his early twenties, though looking aged by death, two days dead at least. He was clad in scarlet red armor, bearing the insignia of the scarlet crusade on the breastplate, which had a large hole punched through it, dried blood trailing out of it.

She finally removed her toe from it on instinct, stepping over it and brushing more stalks aside until she stepped into a clearing, her foot hitting yet another lump of death along the way, this one looking more decomposed than the other.

In a field by a fence that led to the cabin's yard, was a view both splendid and horrific that consisted of rotting corpses, flies, scattered weapons, and a dreaded aura of despair. Corpses, some scarlet crusaders, some bodies that were far more weathered by decomposition littered the field. One of the more rotted corpses clutched a knife that stuck into a crusader's throat, while a spear had him impaled through the back, allowing him to limbo like a fly nailed to a board.

The stench would normally be unbearable and generally awful, but she could not sense anything around her nostrils. A crunch behind her primed a jolt in her stance and take a defensive position, the dagger poised, blade upside down.

A hooded man stood in a black tunic, quilted trousers, rain boots, and an iron longsword clasped in a bony hand, stepped a final step before both of his feet lined symmetrically. His weapon was not held in a combat stance, and just hung below his waist, blade downward.

There was an uncomfortable silence as a breeze swept through the area, and the sunlight to the east pouring into the meshes of the sky. The man wounded his weapon hand around, and slid his longsword into a scabbard, allowing his hand to hang beside him. "I never thought we'd see you again, Joanna Dartmouth." A slightly raspy voice sounded. "How was the sleep?"

Joanna slowly, and a bit reluctantly relaxed her stance. "Long." She piped.

Joanna stood near the window, clad in a brown farmer's shirt and black slacks, her arms folded as she stared into the wispy clouds in the sky. She looked downward as two roaches crawled along the unpolished wooden floor, one crawling near her big toe just before she mashed it with it.

There were two clumps behind her, and she looked back at two large cow pie boots laid in a pile of other footwear. "Try those on." The man spoke quickly.

"Alright, I'll see if those fit unlike the others…" Joanna replied, sitting against the windowsill and pulling one boot over her right foot. "So Marcus, there's that thing about a third major war, undead rising, the fall of Lordaeron, colonization to the west, anything else I need to know about in my four years of death?"

"Well you know you've been embalmed all to hell." Marcus said, throwing the hood off of his head and showing off his pale half rotted head in the process. The lids on his right eye had rotted off, and dark patches of decomposition littered his face like pimples. Even despite these unpleasant features, he still looked to be a somewhat handsome man, and in his previous life, he might as well have been a natural ladies man.

She had the boots on, clomping them down at the creaky floor. "These will do fine." She muttered. "And what?"

"And this." Marcus pulled a small scroll from his back pocket, tossing it to Joanna. It hit her palm, and her fingers clasped around it. It held two ruby jewels on either side of the roller.

"That's the translator to a paradise of fire and doom." He stated, holding out his index finger. "The question is…" he yanked the longsword out of his scabbard lunging at her just before a boot kicked the weapon out of his hands. The blade spun in a one hundred eighty degree angle, and her hand clamped down on the wooden hilt, holding the tip to Marcus' throat. "Is it safe with you?"

"I think I just answered your question." Joanna whispered, handing the blade back to him.

He waved his hand in his wrist socket and shook his head, untying the scabbard from his belt and handing it to her, which she took in her second hand.

"Where must I depart?" She asked.

"You don't. You stay right where you are." Marcus replied, looking completely serious. "If anybody tries to track you down with it, kill them, then you flee anywhere you want with it since they usually send everybody out to get it if one of their own falls."

"Point taken." She said, driving the blade back into it's sheath.

"I still hold an allegiance to the Forsaken, and I need to continue working for them if I want to hold it." He said, turning toward the door. "I must report back to my outpost."

"How long do I need to hold onto this thing?"

"Indefinitely, but likely not too long."

"Fine."

"Oh, and Joanna." Marcus said after throwing his hood back on and turning his head. "Don't let your past cloud your judgment. This is very important."

Joanna remained silent for a while. "I'm far more concerned about the opposite."

Marcus nodded. "Godspeed." And trotted out.

The sounds of Marcus' footsteps faded, following by a door opening, and shutting. Joanna turned her head around, still immersed in a stagnant and uninviting atmosphere. She still stood, unsure of what else to do.

* * *

_**Mysterious, eh?**_


	4. Zenith

**FOUR - Zenith**

_The Great Sea (In between Azeroth and Lordaeron)_

_Lion's Roar - Alliance Second Rate Frigate_

_En Route to Lordaeron_

His hammock swung back and forth, along with the waves that hit the frigate. Lionel's eyes were still fixated on his bare feet which stuck out of his blanket, wiggling his toes to see if he was still alive. He looked at his wooden surroundings. The wooden floor, the wooden walls, the wooden ceiling, the wooden door, the painted wooden porthole, the wooden desk, the wood behind the wood. Wood floating over water.

He turned his head and fixated on his equipment pack with his boots leaning against the wall. He laid back, hearing muffled sounds of crewmen on duty calling out in the night, and the ones off duty laughing and singing below deck. He wasn't sure if he could get used to this, and he threw his blanket on the far end of the hammock.

Emerging with his boots and overshirt on, to the right of him were the captains chambers and the war room, and to the left was the port and starboard cannon stretch, holding six cannons total. Lionel cautiously stepped to the cannon stretch, each end of the room holding a wooden staircase which he climbed down to the galley.

The area was not as lively as it would have been if the ship was on full active duty. This was a special expedition, and thus the number of crewman were reduced. On a few tables which were suspended by chains, there was a crewman here and there, telling old war stories, drinking, making up for a missed dinner while on duty, or shooting dice. That made eight total, and they weren't necessarily doing one of those at a time.

Lionel sat at an empty table on the wooden bench and stared out the window toward the stars, the waves illuminated by the moonlight as they either crashed away or into the ship's hull. A few swift clicks on wood followed by a few yells and laughs signaled a successful roll in craps.

In the corner of Lionel's eye was a mass of much too stout to be a human, far too burly to be a gnome, and a hell of a lot hairier than an elf. Lionel's head turned to see what he expected, a dwarf with a rose blonde beard and a mug in each hand.

One mug, filled with a dark brown liquid with a muddy brown bubbly head, most likely a stout was set on side of the table opposite Lionel. The dwarf sat on the opposite side, scooting the other one, which was filled with a golden malt liquid.

The dwarf's face cracked a grin. "Yo-ho, sailor." The dwarven accent rattled, as his hand clasped firmly on the metal handle of the mug.

"Zenith Shaleskin…" Lionel grinned back, grabbing his own mug and smacking the side of the dwarfs, creating a delightful swoosh of each type of brew. "They told me at the last second you would be assisting me. How are your brothers and sisters?"

"Well, Hannah is doing what she does best: preaching and promoting the family any way she can. Baliff finally gave up drink, stopped getting his arse thrown in the town jail, and is now the family confessor. Donner is still in Bael Modan… I haven't heard from Keller in two months, but it's likely she's still doing alchemy work in Ironforge…"

"And the wife and kids?"

Zenith's massive dwarven eyebrows cast gloomy shadows on his eyes and his mouth sunk into a frown. Not a saddened from, but more of an annoyed one.

"Surely they have to be doing better!" Lionel scoffed, leaning forward in his chair.

"Money is tight… Charsi threw the biggest fucking hissy fit ever before I left. Samwell still has turquoise fever, Dori has still been getting into fights with the Lightaxe boys and we're on the verge of a family feud. Myla still hasn't spoken a word since crawlin' out of her mother two years ago…" Zenith stared in his mug of dwarven stout, sniffing the alcohol and taking a long and disgusting sounding sip of the beer. He then looked up at Lionel and burst into a feigned grin. "Other than that, everything's swell!"

"So you hope to get paid royally after you finish this task?"

"Royally doesn't cut what they promised." Zenith repeated, taking a long sip. "Let's hope the Alliance Clergy and Paladin Bill is still active once I get off this trip."

Lionel finally took a gulp of his ale, the taste taking him by surprise. "Uh, Zenny… I guess I forgot to tell you I switched to Kul-Tirian red ale after I enrolled in Dalton."

"Don't give me the fewer calories shit ye bound to give me lad."

Lionel took another sip. "This Khaz Modan lager is still a taste for sore tongues though." After a few more chuckles from Zenith, Lionel exhaled quickly. "Listen Zenny, there's something you need to know about the mission…"

"Other than tomes and scrolls written in orcish, what have I got to be interested in lad?" Zenith took a large gulp from the mug, and released a brief bone shaking belch.

"The order didn't tell me what we're going to be up against, if anything."

"They sent me with yah because I'm scarier than anything that we're gonna find on this journey, I'm good at thaumaturgy and holy magic so I can heal yah, I've taken more slashes, pissed more blood, killed more creatures, and not even the sharpest and finest fletched night elf arrow can get through the first layer of skin on my prick."

"Ugh, yeah, Zenith, I know that, but you shouldn't be so cocky."

"Ever since I saw that, eh, what the bloody hell is his name, Falcone? I assumed he was a wanker… a wanker who seemed very protective."

"Yeah…" Lionel sighed, taking another sip from the lager, bubbly fizz hitchhiking into his mustache. "Always a bit protective, especially around me."

* * *

_**Short chapter, I know.**_


	5. Pinewood

**FIVE - Pinewood**

_Southshore, Lordaeron_

_Thirty hours later_

Semi consciously, Lionel heard a muffled cry from out his window. His eyeballs rolled around behind his lids and he turned over in his hammock. His mind processed the sound, and he came to the conclusion that whoever this person was, yelled "Wrecked ship off the starboard bow!"

Lionel's eyes opened halfway. The number of old wrecked ships from previous wars still locked in permanent anchor must be in great amount. What were they worried about? He rolled over to his opposite side, the hammock jiggling from his pendulum swing. He stilled, snorted once and laid on his side toward the window.

The door burst open at that very moment. "Lionel!" Zenith's voice called out nearly point blank. Lionel turned his body to look at the dwarf, not bothering to say anything and let him finish his sentence. "Laddie! There's an alliance ship crashed against a cluster of rocks not far from the shore!"

"Zenith…" Lionel stammered throwing the upper part of his blanket to a fold and sitting up in his hammock. As he did this, he felt the coolness of the air from the porthole. "Just what the hell does this have to do with me?"

"Because the captain wants to talk with yah!" Zenith squealed in annoyance from his statement. "NOW!"

Lionel sighed, kicking the blanket off his shins. His feet hit the wooden floor, his heel dragging forward to scoot the boots toward him, which he picked up and began fitting onto his legs.

As Lionel stepped topside, the sky was filled with clouds and mist, and the air was somewhat cold. He narrowly dodged a short gnomish lieutenant running his stubby legs out to relay orders to men on the bow. Only one out of three sails was set, setting a modest speed as it navigated through this rather rocky part of the coast. Lionel stepped around the port topside cannon and up to the stairs of the poop deck (the elevated platform in the stern of the ship where the helm was located), dodging a few crewmen, and wincing as one of them blew a toot from a whistle around his neck.

Lionel finally stepped near the wheel, where the first mate manned the helm and twisted the wheel in several different directions in an attempt to stay the course, and dodge rocks along the way. A man in a decorative blue trench coat and a crescent hat looked out of the starboard side to the eerily calm sea. Lionel, brushing his way past a midshipman began to reach out his hand to tap the man on the shoulder when he seemed to be aware of his presence and turned his head.

"Mr. Darktree." The man nodded his head.

"Captain… Taber, right?" Lionel nodded back.

"Formally, I'm a lieutenant commander, but everyone on board refers to be as captain, so fine." Taber replied.

Lieutenant Commander Andrew Taber was a human with very dark skin, black hair, and dark eyes, possibly due to being native to the human nation of Stromguarde. He was a man who held the occasional habit of stating the obvious, and retained a calm demeanor. The men aboard the ship held a high regard for him, partially because he was a likeable commander, but mostly due to his military experience during the third war, where five scourge ships were sunk under his command.

"So what's the word skipper?" Lionel piped, looking down at the shipwreck that was no more than four hundred meters off the starboard flank now. Though the ship was halfway underwater, it was clear that it was a larger ship class than the Lion's Roar, possibly a second rate battleship.

Lionel felt something cold and metal tap against his elbow. He turned and saw that Taber was offering him his telescope, which he immediately took up, extending it and looking through it.

"That's the Pinewood. Alliance battleship." Taber spoke. "Attached to the second fleet."

Lionel spotted the name written on the side of the bow through the telescope. "Isn't that the fleet the Lion's roar is attached to?"

"Exactly. The Pinewood set sail out of Kul-Tiras two days before we did." Taber added.

Lionel was now realizing the seriousness of the situation, and closed the telescope and handed it back to Taber, who took it up. "Who are you going to send to check it out?" Lionel questioned, knowing what the answer was going to be.

"Thought we might find out just how skilled you are." Taber cracked a smile. "How are your sea legs?"

"I haven't lost them." Lionel replied.

In mere minutes later, Lionel was clad in a black thick fabric body suit designed to repel and resist water, essentially a wet suit. The ship had dropped anchor one third of a kilometer away from the Pinewood, as well as a rope net ladder into the water for Lionel to climb up when he was finished with the task at hand. Lionel placed the hood over his head, and his black mithril gauntlets on.

Zenith stood over him, where two crewmen were outfitting him quickly from the feet up with steel plate armor. Lionel didn't even notice until he reared his head. "Damn it, Zenith!"

"What?" The dwarf questioned, closing his eyes as a breastplate was placed over his stout dwarven torso and buckled from the side. One crewman pulled his long beard out from under the armor to keep it from being stuck inside.

"Stay on-" Lionel managed before he was cut off.

"You're going to need my help laddie."

"STAY ONBOARD! This isn't the kind of task you need to chaperone me with!"

Zenith nodded. "Fine, I'll stay on a rowboat, then pull yer ass outta the fire once everything goes south. How's that?"

"Nothing's going to happen, Zen." Lionel sighed, tucking his hair inside his cap, and perching himself on the rail. "This is a shortcake task, I'll be back in a matter of minutes." He lurched forward with his legs, his rump sliding off the edge of the rail, his legs finally kicking of the side as he was halfway down, which propelled him forward. A splash was heard as he hit the water. Zenith could only shake his head in disbelief. He noticed the crewmen were hesitant to continue dressing him in steel at the moment. The evil eye from Zenith was all they needed to get back to work.

With the wetsuit on, the water was all but blocked from entering through the special fabric. Lionel's face, however was exposed, and freezing cold water touching one's face was a shock to the system indeed, but he kept a steady pace swimming freestyle all the way to his destination. With every breath he took while his face was exposed to air drew him closer along with his strokes.

In an uncertain matter of minutes, he stopped, letting his torso float in the cold water. He stared up at the dark and foreboding ruins of the Pinewood, just a few of it's sails up, something he should have noted. He swam closer to a rock it had crashed on, climbing on top of the slippery surface with coordination and skill, and avoiding the splinters that littered and caked it. Above it was the rope ladder that lead up, most of it crushed under the rock or underwater. He tugged it, noticing it was structurally sound, and yanked himself up.

Zenith, fully clad in his steel armor, looked on from the Lion's Roar, squinting his beady dwarven eyes as he saw Lionel hoisting himself up in the distance. He turned to Taber. "Get a rowboat ready."

Lionel stopped as he was quite a deal away from the top deck, and thought for a minute, checking his surroundings. He looked at a closed cannon hatch, and conceived an idea. Saving time from going all the way on top deck, he would make things harder, but shorter on himself. He moved to the side on the rope ladder, reaching for the handle on the hatch. His finger pressed against the cool metal, and two fingers wrapped around it, giving it a swift tug.

Heavier than he thought it would be. He moved to the side a bit more, his right foot on the blue painted wooden rail that wrapped around the ship, and leaned forward more. His hand wrapped around it, this time all of his fingers and a strong palm grasping it as he tugged it, creating a loud mixture of a bang and a crack as the hatch popped off and fell into the water.

Lionel was very close to urinating himself when a bloodied man fell into view, his back laying over the doorway, his eyes closed. A foul stench quickly filled his nostrils, implying that the man had been dead for some time. He had holes in his head, neck and torso, crusted with dried blood on his sailors tunic. He looked quite peaceful in death, his mouth and eyes shut.

Lionel began to study the wounds of the corpse, and wrapped his left arm around the rope ladder, using his shoulder to suspend his upper body. His left hand pressed down on the switch on his right gauntlet, the blade popping out. Lionel then placed his left hand on the man's bloodied neck, his skin stiff to the touch. The blade carefully dug into the wound, the tip making contact with an equally metal surface. Lionel's gloved finger, and his blade slid under the source of solid, and flipped out a ball of lead into his left palm.

"Grapeshot…" Lionel muttered under his breath. It was clear that the Pinewood didn't simply wreck, but was assaulted. He released the blade with the opposite switch, pushing the deceased crewman back into the bowels of the ship and hopping in feet first.

His feet narrowly missed the corpse of the same man, and he witnessed a massive gaping hole in the starboard side of the deck. Burnt wood and splinters littered the area, powder burns were clear all over the area, and a cannon had toppled over in the impact of a likely impact from enemy fire. A dead female crewmember, most likely an officer due to her clothing, laid against a cannon riddled with an ugly combination of shrapnel, splinters, and grapeshot. Two more crewman lay dead on the floor, one clearly a dwarf, and another that Lionel had to study past the severed head and missing limbs to notice it was another human.

Lionel blinked, pulling the cap off his head and shaking his hair around. Even with the four dead crewmen on this deck, there was still an eerie lack of crewmen. Battleships like these usually housed several crewmen due to their size, and the absence of many bodies on board the Pinewood either implied that they were dragged off, taken prisoner, or strangely enough, were the only ones who came aboard. Lionel stepped over a small hole in the floorboard, possibly caused by cannonball, and stepped over to the female officer, reaching into her pockets. Her breast and pants pockets were all but empty save for a few silver coins and a whistle, but her side coat pocket carried a keychain with one large key, and one small. Lionel paused, then hung in on his belt, walking off.

Lionel descended the stairs that led to the lower deck, cautiously avoiding a step that was taken out entirely by cannon fire, yet another body was slumped over at the bottom, this one a night elf female. Her wounds looked not to be caused by shrapnel or grapeshot, but puncture wounds, suggesting that the Pinewood was boarded. At the very bottom, water had flooded a foot high on the deck.

This deck was far darker, due to the lack of a light source. Several crates and barrels bobbed up and scooted slightly in the saltwater that entered the area. Against the opposite wall was a rack of naval sabers and firearms, flintlock pistols, muskets, and blunderbusses. Suddenly, Lionel thought of the second war, as his uncle told stories of sailing through enemy fire on a transport ship during a naval engagement to get to shoreline.

Lionel turned to his right, spotting a door that read "officer's mess", and stepped in, his hand clasping the handle, when he realized it wouldn't budge. At first, he thought it was due to flooded water behind it, but ruled it out. Thinking for a moment, he studied the knob and a keyhole beside it. He felt as if his head lit up in a beam of light and smirked, grabbing the keychain and staring at the two keys, thumbing the larger one, rattling it about and sticking the larger one into it, giving it a firm twist.

There was the sound of a hinge unlatching, and he twisted the knob, pushing the door open, hearing water skimming and splashing as the bottom of the door waded through it. Lionel stood into the mess, seeing a wave caused by the door to move near the large officer's table, crashing off of it, the rest smacking into a cabinet with a model ship in the center.

Lionel's eyes scanned the room, spotting a body slumped over the table in a murky pool of dried blood, and a flintlock pistol clutched in hand.

"Damn." Lionel cursed, his ankles making tide as he stepped through the watery floor, he inspected the man's sleeve insignia on the blue officer's coat, the mark of the rank of captain. He then turned to the door behind him, a door halfway open with the sign that read "Captain's Quarters" and stepped inside.

The decorative wallpaper, ornate furniture, and other such things gave no further question that this in fact, was where the captain dwelled. Lionel began to feel a sense of impatience as he stared down the queen sized bed, the polished oak desk, the fruit bowl, and the still lit candles on the chandelier that suspended from the ceiling.

Then he spotted a slab of metal in the wall by the bed, a large stud and keyhole in the middle. Immediately he trudged over to it, stepping over a pan that had most likely flooded it's way out of the officer's mess. He nearly lost balance when he caught onto the wall with his left hand, the keychain still in his right. He pressed his back against the wall, fumbling and rattling the keys until his thumb and forefinger managed a grip on the head of the small one, and he placed the key hoping it wound fit.

Success. He turned it, the safe opening and hinging to his right. He peered inside, seeing two scrolls. Grabbing one, he unrolled it, reading the header that read "Supply list", and placed it back inside, picked up the other which read "Crew roster", then dropped it in the water.

Looking inside, he saw an envelope at the bottom, which he took up, seeing the wax seal had been broken. He flipped it open and pulled a piece of starch paper, unfolding it, throwing the envelope aside and reading it.

ORDERS FOR THE SECOND RATE BATTLESHIP PINEWOOD

ALLIANCE NAVAL HEADQUARTERS (KUL-TIRAS)

TO: Captain David Whitmore

The Pinewood is to move north to Southshore, Lordaeron directly under the Hillsbrad foothills. There you will set anchor and sent out a scout force to recover the decoder scroll for the Crimson Tome and it's additional components. The scroll is confirmed to be held by a warlock in a Forsaken undead outpost in a moor overlooking the shore. Use the utmost caution, do not act hostile to this populace. Barter and bribe your way into trusting them, then find a way to obtain the scroll in any way you can.

Mia Standish

Secretary of the Quadris-Tal-Carmona

Lionel turned the paper over, revealing a crude scribbling of quill and ink.

Known locations: Crimson tome = Lonely Ford, scroll one = OBTAINED, scroll two = Ogrimmar

Ironically, Lionel kept a calculated demeanor throughout his trek through the damp interior of the Pinewood, even with corpses littering it with a foul and unnerving presence. The letter and text he read, however, was a large piece in an unsettling puzzle. Even with so much said, he was left utterly confused. He stuffed the letter down the neck of his shirt in hopes of keeping dry on the swim back. As his mind tried to make sense of what happened onboard the derelict ship, he continued his walk forth.

The half open door to the quarters burst open, spraying water all over the room until it spread thin like mist, creating a screen over the door for a little less than a second. From behind this screen, a mass of reptilian scales shot forth from the darkness and mist. Beside it's wide angry face clutched a crude blade with several grooves in a primitive metal. Instinctively, Lionel hopped off one foot, supporting his weight with his right, flipped and rolled across the floor, making miniature skims as he moved.

His left foot and right knee hit solid, and he clicked open his right gauntlet blade, the wide blade of mithril popping out above the knuckle. The creature was about to turn around for another swing, and brought it's crude blade up while making a screech that sounded like high volume retching. Lionel's blade dug deep into the chest of the creature, embedding itself directly through a scale and spilling a thin green liquid into the water. The creature croaked, sinking further forward before twitching, it's arms going limp, and it's massive eyes dilating.

The sole of Lionel's boot pressed against it's belly, pushing the reptile off his blade and causing it to crash into the watery floor. "Damn Murlocs!" Lionel exclaimed. He silently chastised himself for breaking silence, then decided it would be a good time to flee the scene. His boots clicked and splashed around, carrying him through the officer's mess as he thought he would collide with several more of the beasts. He exited the doorway to the storage area he was in earlier at the bottom of the stairs, and saw exactly what he predicted.

Two of the purple skinned murlocs stood at the end of the room, simpering and hissing, one with a spear in hand, and one with a crude blade and a shield salvaged from some sort of massive sea shell. Lionel cursed nastily under his breath, grabbing two small caliber flintlock pistols from the cabinet. Hoping sincerely that they were loaded, he primed the one in his left hand with his gloved thumb, aimed at the chest of the murloc with the spear.

The flint ignited the powder in the firing pan, continuing into the firing chamber and blasting out a ball of hot lead. In an instant, a pillar of misty green blood popped out of the shoulder of the murloc, who let out a croak that seemed almost as loud as the gunshot. It fell over, rolling in the water and attempting to get on it's feet once more. The other murloc was petrified by the gunfire and cowered in the corner.

A sore sight for sore eyes was evident when two more murlocs ran in from the lower deck's cannon stretch. The wounded murloc climbed to his feet, twice as infuriated as he once was. Saying a variety of profanity, Lionel hatched an idea. He leaped, his foot hitting the a half floating crate, and perching on it. "Let's see how you bastards handle high voltage."

His gloved finger crackled, a channel of lightning bursting into the water. In a matter of seconds, screeching and crackling was heard, the water conducting the voltage and bringing it to the murlocs, who's muscles spasm and their heart rate ceased. Lionel relaxed his finger, the room still holding a bold blue illumination by the electric current within the foot high water. One by one the murlocs dropped into the water, adding to the corpses on board.

Lionel didn't waste any time after it had subsided. Dropping the empty flintlock, he picked up another from the rack, tucking both of the firearms under the utility strap on his torso, sprinting up the steps, dodging broken ones as he ascended. Reaching the upper deck, more like hopping with one leg at a time than running in a quick motion. The worst always being expected by him, it never seemed to disappoint. Three more murlocs stood in the corridor, checking the deceased crewmen for valuables. One of the murlocs, this one with bright orange scales, was picking pieces off of the crewman missing body parts, taking strands of muscle and stuffing it in his mouth.

They were too close to the windows, and Lionel would rather keep as far as possible from a murloc flesh eater, so he hatched an alternate escape, running into a hallway to the right of the stairs, he came upon a staircase that led to the stern of the top deck. He could hear the skittering and smacking of murloc feet behind the soft clomping of his boots.

Turning immediately to the right while on deck, he ducked under a fallen sail mast that was suspended by the elevated stern. He quickly looked behind him to see one murloc climbing over it, and leapt out of his sight. Lionel's innards immediately tensed, and he popped the blade out of his right gauntlet once again.

The murloc landed on the rail in front of him, reaching out with a short spear. Lionel jerked his arm away, his left hand swinging around and grabbing the shaft, pulling it, and the murloc's body closer as he reared his blade hand, and drove it under the chin of the beast, the creature sputtering blood as it was pulled free.

Lionel's feet hopped on the rail, and he looked behind him to see that the other murlocs didn't quite seem to be as acrobatic as the one he had just laid to rest, and were having quite a bit of trouble climbing over the fallen mast.

"Lionel!" A gruff voice was heard. Lionel turned his head to see a rowboat below in the water, a fully armored Zenith and two crewmen inside.

Lionel turned his head to see that the murlocs had simply ran around the mast and were heading in his direction. Turning his head toward the water, he contemplated on making it directly into the rowboat, as the murlocs could swarm him in the water, as they were creatures accustomed to marine conditions.

"Clear your fat ass out of the way, Zenith!" Lionel yelled and immediately leapt off the rail, turning around and legs suspended above his shoulders.

He land partially on his rear, and partially on his back, rather painfully, the rowboat shaking violently as he impacted. He yelled briefly as he felt several bruises form. The wet suits fabric was enough to absorb blunt shock. Zenith pulled him in further, as his leg was hanging over the rail.

The murlocs followed through quickly, the yellow hunter splashing into the water beside the rowboat. The orange flesh eater hit the rocks to the left of the craft, disorienting him as he rolled around and slipped partially into the ocean. The yellow hand of the hunter clasp onto the edge, just before an axe made of coral dug into the rail with a crunch. The hunter gasped as he lifted himself up, licking his jagged upper teeth. Zenith grabbed his war hammer, standing in the center of the boat while one crewman armed himself with a musket that he had brought along.

Lionel yanked both of the pistols from under his utility strap, cocking and firing his left one into the thin bony arm of the murloc, tearing it off halfway and causing him to lose a grip on his axe. It croaked and cursed in it's own language, trying to ascend himself once again. Lionel sat up, his feet raising himself slightly not to tip the boat over. He dropped the smoking pistol in his left hand, and cocked the one in his right with his palm. Taking aim just after the murloc swung his half functioning arm over the edge, he fired right into his forehead, spraying pale green blood out of the front and back of his forehead.

The hunter sank back into the ocean, Lionel dropping the other pistol and readying for the other to come around. The flesh eater was rock hopping his way to them already. One crewman brought the barrel of his musket over the edge, taking aim and firing. The bullet came in direct contact with the beast's side, poofing smoke and blood, though still not stopping or fazing him in the least bit. Seconds later he landed in the front of the boat. He turned his head, hissing with rusty metallic colored teeth, cream colored eyes and very small menacing pupils, the blood and residue from his last meal still on his chin. The fins on the side of his head flapped with the hissing. The two crewmen were genially terrified, and scooted themselves near the back of the boat.

Luckily, he had lost his weapon in the fall, which still didn't narrow down the killing efficiency of the beast enough. A scaly hand grasped around the throat of Lionel, cold and hard to the touch. His windpipe was almost nearly blocked off as Lionel reached for the coral axe behind him, ripping it out of the side, swinging it around in his hand and bringing it down.

The murloc attempted to block the axe with his hand, and found the edge torn down and split the hand in two halves. The murloc screeched, letting go of Lionel's throat, flinging his arm around and grasping the rough shaft of the weapon with his free hand, and ready to slice his adversary up with it.

The hopes of the murloc killing and consuming Lionel for his breakfast were abruptly ended when Zenith let out a heavy smash on the top of the creature's head. The impact cracked his skull, flattening his brain, popping one of the massive eyeballs out, and a skull fragment bursting through the side of his head, where the blood and brain matter jetted out.

There was a brief, but comfortable silence as the orange murloc fell into the center of the boat, instantly killed. Zenith and Lionel sighed simultaneously. "Somebody help me toss it overboard."

"Hell no! We need to get out of here before more of the damned things get here!" One of the sailors yelled, grabbing both of the oars and propelling them backwards.

Lionel just stared at Zenith, frowning under his beard, and nodded wordlessly as the rowboat moved back to the Lion's Roar. Leaning over to the corpse of the murloc, he inspected a small string around the creature's leg, most likely made out of seaweed. He turned it's body over, inspecting a cloth trinket on his leg.

Lionel's eyes squinted, and he held it in place with his left hand, snapping the end off with his gauntlet blade and inspecting it. It was heavy to the touch, and he opened the top, pouring three gold coins into his hand, just half the load.

He placed the others on the seat and observed one. On both sides was a design of a crescent moon with a sun behind it. He dropped it down, blinking and looking back to the ugly wreckage of the Pinewood.

"I'm telling you captain, there's a myriad of evidence in there that suggested that someone attacked the-" Lionel was cut off as he followed Taber to the stern.

"Look, I believe you, but as a ship commander of the Alliance Armada I have orders to follow." Taber merely tapped a dwarven crewman that stood in the way, and he moved aside quickly.

"You see the mast! That fallen mast!" Lionel yelled, pointing at the wreckage of the Pinewood. "That was caused by a chain shot! Other ships attacked the Pinewood, aren't you in the least bit concerned-"

Taber turned his back to him and pointed a finger into Lionel's chest. "I don't like this anymore than you do. Far less, in fact." He growled, interrupted him. "But I can't let this setback get in the way of transporting you safely to your destinations, that's why my crew and I are being paid extra. I would not be following through if I were to disobey orders and chase around whoever did this." They stared each other down, Taber backing up a bit. "Besides, it's puzzling why you're so concerned about this. Did you find anything that had to do with your mission there?"

Lionel paused. He couldn't say anything to him about this, and he was certain that Taber also knew this. He continued to look at him, hoping the next words out of Lionel's mouth would close the argument. "No…" Lionel scoffed, rubbing his head. "I'm… I'm just venting. I only got around four hours of sleep last night, I had murlocs chase my ass through a wrecked ship…"

"Well you're welcome to get some rest before you head out. We're close enough from the shore for you to take the rowboat back out." Taber piped, turning around to go to his quarters.

"No…" Lionel declined. "I'll be heading out with Zenith to the shore in a few minutes after I change."

Taber nodded. "I'll be happy to lend you some of my marines to accompany you, if you wish."

"Thanks, but we'll be fine." Lionel sighed, turning away.

"And Mr. Darktree…" Taber interrupted. Lionel looked behind him wordlessly. "Here's some advice; stay in the present moment for light's sake." He chuckled, turning his head and looking back to the Pinewood. "It's naval command's job to worry about what was and what will be. A warship captain earns his pay by doing his thing in the here and now."

Lionel stared for a few seconds, nipping at the upper lip with his bottom incisors briefly, then gulping. He nodded. "I'll try to keep that in mind." He sighed, turning away.

* * *

_**Word of advice: Murlocs are no fun. :P**_

_**R and R boys and girls, keep em' coming.  
**_


	6. The Hut

**SIX - The Hut**

Lionel decided to silently keep count on how much distance he made with the rowboat while Zenith read the Pinewood's orders behind him in the front. The wind had slightly began to pick up in the last few minutes, creating larger waves than before.

"Bloody 'ell!" Zenith squealed after he finished reading, his dwarven accent seeming even thicker the more surprised or angry he was. "This doesn't make any sense at all!"

Lionel took a breath as he created another aerobic movement to get them further to the shore, the oars on each side of the boat creating tornado like puddles with every successful stroke. "What's even stranger is that the murlocs had gold on them." He puffed, creating slower, longer strokes this time.

"You don't think somebody might have paid them off, do yah lad?" Zenith asked, his bushy eyebrows arching. "People have hired murlocs as mercenaries before…"

"Yeah, somehow, some of them develop sufficient social skills to make business transactions with other races…" Lionel said, looking back at the wreckage of the Pinewood. "Though they don't have the weaponry to take a ship down…"

"Cannons? Hell no." Zenith scoffed, trying to take his eyes away from the broken shell of a war vessel in the distance. "Though do you think there was someone else in on this?"

"No doubt." Lionel replied. "Whoever it was is aware of the order."

"Which makes things even more difficult for us." Zenith groaned. He held letter eye level. "Want me to toss this overboard? Or is there a reason you kept it…?"

"Yeah." Lionel nodded, still not facing Zenith. "Look on the back."

It didn't any more than five seconds for Zenith to crack a louder "Bloody hell!"

"Yeah, I know."

"Laddie, wait just a second. How can you be certain that one of those bastards didn't write that on the captains order sheet? Somebody could be fucking with us!"

"You give your kids a goodnight kiss with that mouth, Zenith?" Lionel chuckled slightly, the recognition that this wasn't an opportune time to be making jokes. "Anyway, we shouldn't jump to conclusions. There was a locked safe and I doubt anybody had time to look for the key." His inner self laughed within the walls of his mind at the notion that he was able to find the key before anyone else could.

"Laddie, if someone is aware of this little order you happen to be in." Zenith grunted during a pause in speech. "Then the entire thing might as well be compromised. What if-"

"Zenith, please." Lionel objected. "We're not being chased right now, we have a job to do and our objectives to go along with it." He paused for a second letting out a heftier stroke than usual, almost choking on what he was about to say. "Stay in the present moment."

"Since when the hell have you ever stayed in the present moment?" Zenith questioned. "There's something about your uncle's death that's really been putting the zap on yer head lately."

Lionel nodded respectfully, not exactly feeling it was an appropriate time to think and talk about Conrad Darktree. "Yeah. I guess it's nothing."

There was an erratic shifting of leveling and angle, followed by the sound of grinding sand, Lionel and Zenith both trying to keep their balance. "For light's sake, Zenith! You're supposed to watch the bow for a reason!"

Zenith grunted heavily, grasping onto the edge. "Sorry Lionel." He apologized almost sheepishly, and stepped off into the damp, grainy sand, his boots hitting the area with a clomp. "Help me get this off the beach will yah?"

In Lionel's hands was a stiff cloth map of Southshore which he carry, the shadows from the tall leafless trees casting down from the sun above. They had moved the rowboat out on the shore, tipping it and leaning against a small rock to keep the rain out of the keel. This particular area of Southshore hugged a mile or two of grassy lowlands with occasional irrigation and farming, so it had been half an hour of walking until they reached the slightly elevated forest area, with tall leafless trees towering over the pathway.

Lionel was fully dressed in a dark leather armor suit, the gauntlets still going along. He wore no headgear as he assumed there would be no need, but did pack a rain jacket if it became necessary to use it. He carry a small light pack on his back, mostly the utility items. His old curved war blade was in it's scabbard around his belt, among other interesting things on the front and back pouches stitched on it.

Zenith was dressed in full steel plate armor with an open face helm to go along with it. At his side he carry a war hammer and buckler with the cross and hammer insignia of the holy light etched on to it. On his back he carry a bulkier and heavier pack full of food, potions, and other weapons. Even with this massive load on his body he still did not seem to waver in his dwarven strength at all.

"So how'd you meet ol' Falcone or whatever his name is?" Zenith broke the long silence.

Lionel was still studying the map, taking one hand and removing a compass, placing it on the edge of the walking point as they began to wound a turn in the trail. "My family, particularly my uncle knew him since the end of the first war. He was an intelligence officer for the Alliance in the second and third, and supposedly doing some covert things."

"Covert?"

"Well, I heard he did some things like sabotage orcish oil refineries at Grim Batol, but that's all I've ever heard."

"So I guess that's why he founded the Order of the Cube. Spies and assassins with arcane magic abilities? Suits him just fine."

Lionel looked back at Zenith quizzically. "I never knew you were so naïve about this subject." He chuckled.

"Whaddya mean?" Zenith asked.

"Falcone never started the Quadris-Tal-Carmona. He inherited it, apparently. With them guaranteeing your payroll by exposing you to classified information, I'd think that you'd know a lot about them."

"Well with payment on yer mind, one tends to forget all the red wax seals and has his mind on the incentive." Zenith laughed heartily, Lionel chuckling back. "You're certain it's up ahead, in this camp?" Zenith asked, shrugging his shoulders to get the straps of the pack to wrap fully around him.

Lionel mumbled out loud incoherently, his finger moving along the mapped trail. "Should be five hundred meters away, at le-"

Loud booms echoed directly east from them, followed by the sounds of secondary explosions further in. They were distant, but still rather alarming.

"Cannons from Fort Anchorhead. About ten miles from here." Lionel piped in between explosions. "Scarlet Crusaders hold up that bastion. Who do you think they're firing at?"

"Undead, what the bloody hell else?"

"Yeah, but is it the Scourge or the Forsaken?"

"Good call." Zenith nodded, continuing to walk, the heavy footsteps of the dwarf drumming the ground in rhythm with the distant artillery fire. "Speaking of which, how the bloody hell are the Forsaken going to trust us? We're Alliance after all."

"Be respectful as possible to them. We can also barter with them if necessary." Lionel began to fold up the map, placing it in the side pocket of his backpack. From here the trees seem to be getting less and less thick. "All we need to do in the camp is ask around for what we're looking for."

"But how-"

Zenith was cut off immediately by an arrow peering out from behind a tree, point blank to his face. He quickly rolled his eyes to the source, seeing that it was infact, notched. It's owner was a woman with wild hair, a shriveled face, and hellishly rotted fingers that were now showing their bones.

Lionel's lower incisors clamped his upper lip, and he turned quickly to see three more of the silent stalkers to their left. One carried an axe, the others swords and shields. All had the disfigurements that were expected. They were undead, first and foremost. If they were part of the Scourge, Lionel and Zenith would most certainly be attacked or dead at the moment.

The two kept their cool, even with weapons being waved in their faces. From behind a thicker tree came yet another undead member, one with a short cut Mohawk, an eye patch, chain mail armor, and a splintery wooden crossbow that had seen better days draped on his shoulder.

"What business does a full flesh human and a dwarf…" The undead man studied Zenith's buckler and armor with his one eye. "…a dwarven paladin of all things, have here in Forsaken territory?"

Zenith stammered up an answer but Lionel waved him off quickly. The human infiltrator cleared his throat. "We're here on unofficial Alliance business. We've come to look for a scroll you all may have no need of." Lionel swallowed the saliva gathering in the back of his mouth, hoping that the Forsaken would be in the least bit lenient.

In a flash, the man waved his mailed fingers, and with that the other Forsaken relaxed their weapons. The mohawked, eye patched leader of the group stepped off the ledge he was on, and walked closer to them. "We were listening to you in the past few steps we took before we… ambushed you… in the way we did." He said, stepping near Zenith and placing his fists on his hips. "So the things you said seem to imply that both of you won't be causing any trouble. We shall trust you." The Forsaken nodded, reaching his hand out. "My name is Ernest. I'm the watch commander for the outpost up ahead."

Zenith reached up, his armored gauntlet clasping the man's hand and giving him a firm handshake. "Paladin Zenith Shaleskin." He bravely declared, and released his grip from the undead man's hand as soon as the latter did the same. Ernest turned his head and nodded, his one glowing yellow eye peering at Lionel. "And who might you be, full flesh?"

"Petty officer Peter Townshend, Alliance navy." He lied, shaking Ernest's chain mailed hand.

The other Forsaken had begun to move up the trail, whispering amongst themselves as they did. "We can offer you what hospitality we can, but I'm afraid we're fairly tight on supplies." Ernest said, turning and walking up the correct direction.

"Well, I suppose I can make this generous offer…" Lionel stopped him, pulling the two flintlock pistols he obtained from the Pinewood from his backpack and holding them out in front of them. Ernest looked back, taking both of them up. "They're not loaded, however."

Ernest nodded, cocking one of them, aiming at the sky and pulling the trigger, the hammer making a click on the flint. He then put the other under his belt and pulled the pistol's ramrod out halfway, inspecting it. "We could always use a few of these. We've got a little ammo and powder to go along." He said turning around and continuing the walk forth. Lionel looked back and smiled at Zenith.

"So Mr. Townshend…" Ernest continued. "What ship are you stationed on?"

"The Tidal Fury, a second rate frigate." Lionel replied, still comfortable with the false information he was letting out on.

"Did you happen to be inspecting that large battleship that was attacked here a day or two ago?" The undead watch commander brought up.

"Yes…" Lionel spoke. "Yes as a matter of fact, that's one of the reasons I came here." He blinked a few times and looked back at Ernest. "Do you know who took it down?"

"It was a foggy day, so it was difficult to know for sure." Ernest said, looking back through to trees to the shore.

"Did you see it though?" Lionel was starting to sound desperate, and almost frustrated. Zenith could only walk wordlessly, trying not to break silence.

"Easy… I know this must mean a lot to you, with you wanting justice on the ones who took your fellow sailor's lives." Ernest calmly said. "When I was on watch, I saw it happen. I know for a fact that it was a smaller ship. The silhouette was easy to spot."

"Anything distinctive about it?"

"The ship itself was an odd shape, like, uh-" Ernest stammered, making gestures with his hands. "-a crescent shape. I believe. Like a quarter moon. There was only one sail, a massive one at that."

Lionel and Zenith could only turn their eyes in each of their directions. Lionel slowed down as more cannon fire erupted from the east.

"A small group of Scourge attackers always tries to have a go at Fort Anchorhead, but they never make it past the gate." Ernest explained, stepping up a rather uneven part of the path, establishing his footing properly in the rocky patch. "They're too disorganized in this part of Lordaeron, and the Scarlet Crusade will no doubt take control of the region in a matter of time."

"How's the relationship with them anyway?" Zenith asking, letting out a swift grunt as he made a beefy shrug and adjusted the straps on his back.

"If we show ourselves, then it's likely they'd bash our heads in first, and ask questions second. We're undead after all." Ernest reached out his hand to Zenith who was having a bit of trouble keeping balance on the rocky part of the way. The dwarf looked up, grasping the hand once again and being supported. The man, despite being weathered by decay and undeath still had a very strong arm to lift a three hundred pound dwarf plus extra weight.

Lionel stepped up, seeing that there was a large clearing ahead, which they walked through. The field was strewn with littered wood and barren farmland. A few minutes in walking to the east, a wooden palisade with sharp pointed tips on each log was visible. The three sentinels under Ernest's command were now returning to the outpost, ahead by more than a few meters. There was one particularly tall wooden building that rose above the palisade by twice as much time, posing as a tower of some sort, or possibly the town hall. With the camp's exterior design, one would possibly guess that it was a normal human encampment. Lionel and his dwarven companion saw it as a sign that the Forsaken retained some of their humanity even after the plague hit.

The field wasn't a tender sight, with broke roofed shacks, the bones of farm animals, and other such waste. Further ahead were the badly decaying and warped bodies of men and women with sickly looking iron and steel armor and weapons. A few of them were truly twisted and terrifying with sharp teeth, claws, and shriveled chests and skin, which were ghouls, a more vicious and feral caste of the undead. One could only assume that the Scourge must have attacked a few days prior.

In the far right area of the palisade was a sturdy wooden double door that looked to have been salvaged from a castle or keep of some sort, since the hinges were crudely hammered and splintered in the sides of the wall. The three patrolmen gathered at the door, a slit opening in the middle, two of the yellow eyes of the Forsaken undead peering at the others. The slit closed, and the door opened from the inside, and the three wordlessly entered.

Beside the door, a member of the Forsaken sporting rusty chain mail armor with a massive pike placed in the ground at her side, as well as an unarmored one with a large two handed sword, the hilt held in both hands and the flat side of the blade placed over his shoulder, both set their eyes on the two Alliance agents with extraordinary suspicion. The one with the pike reached out her hand.

"What is the full flesh and the lead belly doing here, eh Ernest?" The sentry questioned.

Ernest turned to her as he walked through. "I checked them, they're not hostile. They're just here to pick up something here that we probably don't need and leave." Ernest explained, pulling out one of the flintlock pistols and handing it to her. "They traded us two of these."

The sentry nodded, taking the flintlock and shoving it in her side pocket. "Very well. You two turn your weapons in on this table." She said, pointing to a splintery oak table in beside the claymore handling undead.

Lionel and Zenith suppressed a frown, then placed the warblade and the war hammer on the table each. Luckily for the former, the Forsaken sentries weren't aware that his mithril gauntlets doubled as killing tools, and was allowed to keep them. Spells were also something that could not be confiscated, both Lionel's offensive magics most certainly, and Zenith's holy magic could be used to inflict harm on anything that wasn't alive.

Within the walls, the encampment was a little more than the two had expected. Tents, shacks, a lumber mill at in the far corner, a mud or clay hut with a cow's placed above the draped entrance, and a blacksmith right next to the wooden tower in the center. The place, particularly near the blacksmith and the lumber mill was bristling with activity, almost like bees in a hive, while other areas were sparsely or not populated. The Forsaken had always had constant activity and tireless labor on their minds which they inherited from when they were still were held under the poisonous influence of the Lich King the first time the plague had hit them.

All of the Forsaken in the camp seemed to be nonchalant about their presence altogether, instead tending to ferrying supplies around the camp. Lionel could feel a tapping on a leather pauldron, looking into Ernest's rotting, yet friendly face. "So, tell me. What scroll are you looking for?"

"A translator." He answered, turning his entire body to face him. "For an orcish code used during the second war."

Ernest's eye patch seem to twitch, and he scratched the side of his head with one mailed finger, then pointed it at him. "You know I wouldn't be the one to know, but Mars definitely would."

"What's the guy look like? Does he have any-" Lionel nearly halted himself, but decided to continue in a respectful tone. "Does he have any… scars or such that I could locate him with? Any bodily features?"

Ernest cracked a wry smile. "Well, he's very, very green. You can't miss him, he's in the shaman hut over there."

Lionel's conscience chastised himself. The green skin could only mean one thing.

"An orc, eh?" Zenith huffed.

"Thanks, you were certainly a big help." Lionel nodded, waving the sentry off who nodded.

"Well you never looked like Scarlet Crusaders." Ernest laughed, waving back. "Nice to meet you sailor, you too paladin."

Feeling very lucky, Lionel and Zenith took off their backpacks and laid them near the sentry post, the two Forsaken giving him a nod before walking the opposite direction.

From behind a few supply crates, a black hooded man who had just picked out an appropriate sword from one of the boxes ominously stared in the direction of the two Alliance agents, who were unaware of his presence.

Zenith tapped on the side near the flap, his armored knuckles hitting only mud as he did. His head turned, the blonde beard swinging around with the sudden jerk. "Yah don't think we should just barge in?"

Lionel sighed, his hand swiping against the red drapes, revealing a lit interior, and his first foot stepped in.

As all of his body was inside, he studied the interior. A rough, dirty red carpet bearing the oval symbol of the horde lie on the ground, which was covered with woven straw. Several baskets, possibly with sorts of food were lined just by the drapes and at the end of the room. On the ceiling, held by a rusted chain was a lamplight, it's shade a misty blue, beside it a dream catcher hanging. On the far side of the room was a bedroll, at it's foot was a shrine with a lit candle, a block of what appeared to be ice, a jar of earth, and miniature windmill.

"Well met noble human and stalwart dwarf."

The gravely voice came from the direct center of the room, where a hooded orc sit with in a safety position, his arms held out on the side. It was quite clear even with his hood on that his eyes were shut. "Come and sit." He commanded.

Lionel nudged Zenith with his right knee, who had just walked in. Wordlessly, they both walked near the shaman, and sat on the mat.

"I sense two souls in search of answers…" The old orc mumbled. He wore what appeared to be a deer hide jacket, a purple shirt with a hood, the edge trimmed with a blue line of rectangular patterns. On his feet were leather boots and sack cloth pants.

Lionel contemplated on choosing his next words carefully, leaning in on the shaman. On his face he could discern lines of scar tissue every so where, mostly on his right cheek. Also evident, was a short grey beard hanging from his chin, looking almost rectangular. "Hello, uh, Mars. We're looking for a particular scroll."

The orc picked up an amber orange smoking pipe in front of him with one hand, most likely made out of a dry hard sap, and placed it in his mouth, puffing away, rings of smoke exiting his nose. After removing it from his massive mouth, he laid it on the mat once again.

Mars released the rest of the smoke from his mouth with a puff. "I have many scrolls, as you can see." He chuckled a bit, not afraid to show a sense of humor.

The orc's joke was more of an annoyance for Lionel than anything else. "The paper should be made out of a material that resembles a soft flexible cork, and each end of the scroll contains a ruby or some sort of fiery gem."

Mars slowly moved his cloak off his head with his fingertips, and it fell of the top of it's head, suspended around his neck. His head was graying and slightly balding, and the scars on his right cheek became evident. "Go on."

"It's…" Lionel swallowed, tensing his gut. "It's a translator for a code used by the Twilight's Hammer clan during the second war."

Mars kept a stern and serious look about him, his eyes shifted from Lionel to Zenith. He blinked, opening his eyes back up again as well as his mouth. "That was stolen from me a few days ago…" He sighed, leaning back. "Though I think I can point you in the right direction."

* * *

_**A WarCraft story is not complete without a major orc protagonist. :)  
**_


	7. Tracks

SEVEN - Tracks

Mars Stormclaw's backpack was sloppily loaded and organized compared to Lionel's and Zenith's, the constant clanking sounds as evidence. He used a large crooked wooden staff to support his weight as they wound down the hill.

"How far is this cliff lookout we're looking for?" Zenith would have asked this before but he was paranoid that he would be accused of griping, so he pushed to have his question sound masculine and uncompromising.

"Just down the trail." Mars declared in his usual gravely voice, cracking a smile that bared his large orcish teeth which looked more like large slabs of porcelain than enamel. "This cliff is the best way for me to understand and scour the land perfectly."

Lionel was wordless throughout the small high country trek, obviously more trusting of Mars' method than Zenith was. Their feet began to hit rocky dirt rather than grass, the three taking their eyes off the ground to look at the view ahead of them. At this rocky cliff, were a few trees, these completely leafless it would seem. The wind and air were swifter and cooler, and several barren crop fields, farmhouses, and barns could be seen. The trees below were far different; they had leaves.

Mars had a close lipped smile on his face as he stared into the sky. The clouds were beginning to open, revealing isolated beams of sunlight. A sickly looking pigeon flew by, something clutched in it's right foot. Lionel and Zenith both held their hands out toward a hole in the clouds to shine away a bright pillar of light beaming down on the cliff to take an absent minded gander at the scavenger bird.

Mars cocked his head toward Lionel, holding out his staff. "Here, hold this for a second, if you don't mind."

Lionel took it up, grasping the shaft with one hand and placing it in his left, planting the end into the ground and watching as Mars stepped toward the cliff, his toes just reading the edge as he held his arms out, holding his chin high, the hood falling off his head.

"Hey Lionel…" Zenith asked. "You think this greenskin is finding this amusing?"

"No more or less amusing than you find the idea of life back home at the moment." Lionel answered, sounding annoyed.

"Just what the hell is that supposed to-" Zenith's voice was overwritten by one even calmer.

"You two, do you mind?" Mars respectfully implied, as his posture never waning a bit. The other two decided not to formulate an answer to the question and maintained silence, Lionel and Zenith staring at one another coldly, silently blaming one another.

A little less than half a minute of Mars' meditation, he relaxed his posture and he turned his body, stepping over to Lionel and grasping his staff with a heavily calloused hand. "It's your lucky day. It's in the far farmhouse down there." Mars proclaimed, pointing his green index finger with an elongated yellowish fingernail down toward the lower level.

Lionel let go of the staff, allowing the shaman to take it back for himself. "Well, I appreciate you showing us the way, Mars, and you may head back to the camp. But there's something I need to tell you; we might need to hold onto the scroll for a while, if that's okay with you." He began, clearing his throat.

Mars chuckled heartily. "Firstly, if the scourge or somebody has stolen one of my belongings, I think I'll linger here for a while to see how things turn out…" The shaman then turned and stared at the cabin in the distance. "Secondly, I never liked that scroll anyway."

Lionel smiled. "Well, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it because you never could unroll it."

Mars nodded. "Yeah, that." He leaned against one of the trees on the cliff, bending down and sitting against the rough bark, placing the staff aside and crossing his legs, reaching his arms out and closing his eyes. He cleared his throat. "There's a bit of a slope in the rocks to the North you can tread down on. I'll watch and observe."

Lionel didn't answer, having a feeling that Mars would notice if he followed through. He unfastened the straps on his backpack, laying it at his feet, watching Zenith stand and stare before he realized he needed to do the same.

Lionel drew his warblade, which he received once he announced his departure from the Forsaken encampment, making sure the metal's color was dull enough for it to not glint in the sunlight. Zenith's armor was surely going to give his position away to whatever foes that carried the scroll, and both knew this.

"Zenith, you move in south and stop to the door. I'll sneak in from the north and enter through one of the windows." Lionel requested, walking down the opposite path beyond the cliff, his boot hitting the rock slope.

Zenith scoffed, grabbing his war hammer and buckler from his belt, following Lionel down the path. "Bah, as soon as they try to attack me it'll be over in a matter of sec-"

"You can boast after this is over." Lionel cut in. Zenith only grunted in response.

Zenith stepped over yet another rotting carcass, flies and gnats buzzing off the disgusting skin of the dead crusader as the massive armored dwarven foot reeled over onto the opposite side, the other one picking up and landing in the same spot.

There had been a large skirmish in these farmlands, and he recognized that the corpses with little or no skin had been undead, most likely Forsaken. Zenith spotted a cart with several arrows lodged inside, and two large crates beside it containing what used to be edible food. A dead crusader laid beside it, an arrow lodged in the woman's forehead.

Lionel, meanwhile was inching forward completely prone, his body flat on his stomach as every limb hinged forward and weighed itself on the ground before another moved in. Ironically, he had the magical prowess to turn himself completely invisible, but decided not to tax his mana; the mental motivation and awareness of magical actions.

A foul stench drawing closer, he looked up as his wrist hit the near skeletal corpse of a man. Coughing and exhaling hard through his nose to fight off the odor, he crawled to his left around it. After a few paces, he cocked his head over to see that Zenith was still walking south of him, where he disappeared behind the cabin. Lionel jolted as he saw the same wounded looking pigeon from before peel out of the window of the cabin. Shrugging it off, he continued his pacing, shielding his movements behind a mound of firewood lumber.

He peeked his head in the upper corner of the wood stack just enough to get a glimpse through the first window, which happened to be empty. He then bowed his head once more, jumping up and vaulting over the wooden fence, sinking into a crouch before making his way toward the side of the structure. His back pressed against the wooden wall, splinters scraping at his leather armor as he inched to the side. He peeked inside the window once more.

As quietly as he could muster, he vaulted once more over the windowsill, landing on the wooden floor which made unsettling creaks as he did. Cursing silently, he looked around the room, seeing an empty bed without sheets, several insects crawling around on the floor, and a drawer with two dry candles on each side, a figurine of the boxy cross of the Church of the Holy Light.

Still crouched, his eyes scanned to the floor, seeing more than a few squashed insects flattened on the floor. On closer inspection, he found that two were still glistening in the limited light in the room, fresh kills.

Confident that someone was there, and hoping that they had spotted Zenith before him, he stood up straighter, holding his warblade over his shoulder, ready to cut down anything hostile that appeared. His left hand was held in front of him, the fingers hinging down to the center, a cold misty air emitting from it, ready to hurl bolts of ice from out of the thin air an inch beyond his palm.

Silently, but hastily, he moved his booted feet further near a hall, where a half opened, wrinkly piece of parchment caught his eye. Checking both ends of the hall, finding that they were clear, he dispelled the frost in his left hand and grasped the paper with it, hoping to read it as fast as possible in hopes of checking on Zenith.

Joanna,

Two Alliance members coming down on you. I cannot interfere. Be prepared.

-Marcus

Lionel threw the parchment aside with a surprised huff. They'd been had. The bony pigeon that they found had the message in it's talons. Cursing silently, he checked his flanks to see that no one was in sight, and quickly moved through a room with two rocking chairs and a fireplace, the front door right beside it. The door budged, and Lionel's heart was in his throat. There were loud bangs, and once again frost radiated from his palm, ready to blast anything with a burst of frost.

The door crashed open, revealing a hairy being encased in steel. "Lionel!" Zenith whispered strenuously, his buckler held in a defensive position. "I think I heard something on the roo-"

Suddenly a blur of a pale woman, wearing farmer's clothing hung down and stuck a dagger between Zenith's breastplate and neck. Zenith groaned like a yak, his teeth clenching and dropping his hammer and clutching the wrist of his attacker, and moving his body downwards to create some space between his shoulder and the blade.

A bolt of cold matter pounded into the woman's chest, her shirt caking and stiffening from the attack. Her concentrated force to drive the blade into Zenith dissipated and she rocked and dangled from where she was hanging.

As Zenith dropped to his knees and felt for his hammer, Lionel dashed forward, leaping with his torso out as he tackled the woman in mid air, both arms hugging her waist. They both flew into the open over the dusty and grimy welcome mat, and into a barren tomato garden. The impact caused them to barrel around while still attached to each other, the woman squirming around before her knee hit the top of her adversary's head. Still not letting go, she did it once more, and he fell off.

Both of them climbed to their feet in time, Joanna noticing that her dagger was no longer in her hand. Lionel was already stirring an attack from his curved war blade his feet getting into position as he swung. She reached over her back, her cold fingers grasping the wooden hilt of the longsword and swiftly yanking it out. Her free hand reached and clenched over the lower half of the hilt as she brought it over her shoulder, then quickly parried Lionel's attack.

The two were locked in a set of parrying and attacking moves, Lionel being more aggressive than Joanna, while the latter having the opposite in mind. She narrowly dodged a thrust from the blade by darting to the left, her left foot picking up and making a swift roundhouse to Lionel's side. He tumbled over, rolling and setting his position to a kneel, seeing Joanna swinging her longsword one handedly in a vertical chop. With all the agility he could muster, he placed the blade over his hand, metal on metal clanking and flashing sparks.

They both held position, Lionel's right hand trembling, but staying firm under the opposing weight of his attacker. As he stared into her face he noticed the menacing yellow eyes, signifying her as an undead. This was most likely why she was barely even fazed by the frost spell that Lionel had flung into her stomach, as they were known to resist cold attacks. Her face looking dewy and effeminate, fortifying the possibility that she might have only been a teenager when she died. Aside from those features, her body seemed entirely too plump for any decomposition to have taken place.

An angry roaring came from behind her, Zenith's stubby legs making way as he reared the hammer to smash her while she had her back turned. As was expected, Joanna was quicker than he, and her leg shot behind her, the sole of her cow pie boot hitting the dwarf in the face and dropping him.

As her strength was concentrated elsewhere, Lionel slid his blade further to the hilt of hers, twisting her weapon arm around while standing himself up. He released his hold, elbowing her in the forehead and knocking her back.

She landed directly on the dwarf who grunted, sounding genially pissed off. Lionel was about to run her through until Zenith grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her in pure anger. "Ye pasty white succubus! How do yah like that! HUH?"

Unfortunately, Zenith was far too dizzy from the blow to his face as well as the blood loss from his shoulder wound to keep his grip firm enough, and Joanna wrestled herself out of his hands, grabbing the longsword off the ground and making a running swing toward Lionel. Prepared, he parried the blow and saw her sprint to the wooden cart. Flinging a bolt of ice from his hand yet again, this time Joanna ducking under it, he brought his blade to his side afterward, gaining momentum as he chased after her and swung his blade to his side, finding almost predictably that his blow was parried when she turned around. While his torso was left open, Joanna was swift to step back, and heave a slash.

Lionel grunted loudly under gritted teeth, clutching the cut under his naval and above his belt, stretching to his hip. He was lucky that the leather armor absorbed most of the damage. Small droplets of blood landed and ran down his leg, though not enough to classify as serious bleeding. He gulped, subsiding the pain and slashing at her again, taking note to be less aggressive.

Joanna jumped backwards, her feet landing on the edge of the cart. Lionel, acting more or less pissed off darted forth, both hands clutched on the hilt of his blade. "You runty bitch!" He wheezed, lashing out at her foot. He wasn't entirely cautious about his foe having the higher ground advantage, and she leaped on the side rail of the cart, quickly backing her feet to the rear, her feet balancing perfectly.

She jumped again, landing directly on the back rail, the cart's weight on the other side of the wheels dropping and raising on the opposite side. The two long wooden rails on either side which were used to pull the cart flung up, the right slamming into Lionel's armpit as it flung upward, his arm holding on until the final jolt as the back section hit ground commenced, throwing his grip off and he fell, his back and head hitting the edge of the wooden barrow before he landed face first on the ground.

Lionel cursed himself as soon as he regained consciousness in a matter of minutes., a foot pressed firmly against his back, and the tip of a blade poking into the side of his neck, just under his left ear.

"Don't ye do anything to her, or it's curtains for ye lassie!" Zenith angrily bellowed from his left, his dwarven dialect thicker than ever. Lionel, with his nose still in the dirt, rolled his left eye to see him in a threatening pose, his hammer waving.

"Come any closer..." A calm female voice piped. "…and your friend here gets it."

Lionel snorted, spitting some dirt content point blank back to where he collected it. "Zenith, take it easy." He coughed, trying to remain still.

"What the bloody hell am I supposed to do while she has you in an execution hold, ye dumb fuck?" Zenith roared.

"Certainly not what you're doing now." Lionel coughed. "Listen, if she sticks me, you burn her ass with some holy magic, and take that scroll from her…"

"Laddie, stop talking out of yer ass!" Zenith snorted, both eyes still focused on the undead woman.

"…you take the scroll and then you take it back to the Order of the Cube…"

"Order of the Cube?" A gasp sounded, obviously not Zenith's voice. There was a bit of a pause, and the woman removed the boot from his back, as well as the tip of the sword. Lionel still lay there, feeling that a swift blow to his spine may be next on her agenda. Instead, he felt her presence shift to the side of the cart, and the sound of metal dropping to soft ground.

Lionel raised himself up, climbing to his feet and grasping the war blade and rounding himself around the corner and maintaining a chef's grip on his warblade. The woman had sank into a sitting position against the side of the cart, her glowing eyes showing signs of faint confusion and sadness.

Lionel and Zenith blocked any escape routes, gripping their weapons tightly, ready for any sudden movement. Yet this woman didn't seem like she was going to strike anytime soon.

Lionel clutched his side with one hand, the pain intensifying marginally. "Okay, tell me, who are you?" He asked. "What's going on here? Tell me!"

Joanna turned her head. "I was hoping you could tell me."

Mars stepped through the fields with the staff in hand, avoiding the long dead corpses that were sprawled in the dirt, turning his head every which direction. He saw three moving figures to the right of the cabin, and shifted his direction there.

Zenith grunted. "Argh, lad! Try not to pry so hard!" Lionel moved the shoulder plate out of the way just enough to pour a light green liquid on his wounded shoulder. He then held the vial in the dwarf's face, who took it up and downed the rest of the liquid orally. He sputtered afterwards. "Dah! It tastes like I'm licking wet grass!"

"Well, I've had the potion for a little over a year, and the lime flavor the vendor promised has probably already expired." Lionel reminded. "But it should work just the same." Taking the vial and placing it back into the small pouch in his belt. The wound on his abdomen was closed and healed by Zenith's holy magics, and he felt it was necessary to tend to the dwarf's wound afterwards.

Mars stepped beside the two, whistling softly. "My, my, what happened here?" His eyes rolled to Joanna. "Who's the lady?"

"She won't tell us her name." Lionel answered, sheathing his curved war blade, stepping beside Mars and folding his arms.

"She's not keen on apologizing for carving into us either." Zenith grumbled, his hammer held at his side.

"My name is Joanna Dartmouth. I was born in Andorhal eighteen years ago." The woman shattered her silence, climbing to her feet. "I joined a cult when I was thirteen, training me to kill, and then they stuck me with a blade infected with the plague of undeath." She looked to the sky, her yellow eyes seeing that the clouds were subsiding. "I… I can't seem to remember anything else now…"

Lionel, Zenith and Mars all exchanged cautious glances, the human being the one to break formation taking more than one step to her. "Listen, kid… do you happen to know where a decoder scroll might be?"

She remained silent for a while, her yellowed eyes scanning down to her belt, where she untied a small pouch, pulled an object free, and tossed it to him, Lionel catching it with both hands as it hit his sternum. "I can't say I know what it is…"

"How did you steal this from the orc?" Lionel demanded, looking down on the object and feeling the odd paper and jeweled sides, just as he had predicted. As this happened, his eyes shone brightly as he seemed to recollect something, walking back to his dwarven counterpart.

"I didn't. It was given to me." Joanna replied quickly.

"You didn't take it from me?" Mars inquired. "Then who did, may I ask?"

"Marcus, I think lives in the Forsaken encampment."

"So after nabbing this from my bookshelf, he simply gave it to you?"

"Well, yes…"

"And mind telling me why he would hand it over to you?"

"Because he thought I could protect it and safe keep it."

"You? Then why did-"

"I don't know!" Joanna sighed, her voice laced with aggravation. "I woke up after four years of death, and this is where I find myself, something in the back of my mind knowing what I was supposed to do, and then the human mentioned the Ord-"

"Mars!" Lionel yelled, catching the orc's attention. He had a crumpled piece of paper in his hands, which just so happened to be the letter he stole from the Pinewood. "Do you happen to know where the Lonely Ford is?"

The brows of the orc sank, his mouth shifting on his face. "The Lonely Ford… isn't that an internment camp about three miles from here?"

Behind the expressionless face, Lionel felt that fortune happened to be in his favor. "That's where the Crimson Tome is supposed to be, according to this."

After a few seconds while Lionel stuffed the letter in his breast pocket, the orc seemed to have a confused look on his face. "That can't be… are you referring to the demon tome Cho'Gall translated into orcish?"

"That's right, Dar'Urek, his pupil wrote the scrolls that went along with it, including this one here." Lionel nodded, presenting the scroll to him, then pocketing it once again. "Speaking of which, how did you get this scroll in the first place?"

"First you tell me what you plan on doing with it, human." Mars asked, sounding rather clear and respectful.

Lionel pocketed the scroll once again, looking rather apologetic in expression. "I'm working for a cabal that collects all sorts of historic and ancient writings. I don't plan on summoning any demons with it."

Mars tipped his head afterwards, a crescent frown on his face that seemed to be derived from something vague. The rest expected for him to speak, but he didn't utter a word until Zenith broke the silence.

"You'd better not tell me that you're going alone." The dwarf piped.

Lionel turned. "Just stay behind me."

* * *

_**Yeah I know, the plot thickened, but left more questions than answers. Well, Lionel doesn't really have the time to ask all of them right now, does he? =P**_


	8. The Crimson Tome

**EIGHT - The Crimson Tome**

Even in the twisted wiles of undeath, Lordaeron sustained a feasible amount of vegetation in a large portion of it's soil. There was plenty of grass, a modest amount of trees that still carried leaves, and some grounds were still farmable. The path Lionel happened to be treading, however, was becoming less and less lush with each pace. The trees were beginning to grey, and the earthen floor's fertility was dwindling as he crept closer to his desired location.

A yell was heard from far up ahead, Lionel's boots sidestepping behind a cluster of dying trees beside the path on behalf of his training. His ears perked, absorbing the desired sounds of more voices. They couldn't have been any less than forty meters away. He swung his head around one tree, his eyes focusing between the two natural wooden pillars, making out a pattern of weathered stone a few meters ahead.

The corner of his eye caught movement, followed by the sound of shuffling gravel. Lionel quickly cocked his head in the exact direction, an embarrassed Zenith leaning against a tree to support his weight on the slope, Mars was seen not far behind. He had ditched his oversized backpack near the farmhouse, stuffing a few healing vials in loops in his belt.

Lionel had been through the plan with the orc and the dwarf once before, and after some bickering they finally concluded that a single file down the path would be best, Zenith in front and the other two in the back.

There was some concern that dwelled in the back of his mind, concerning Joanna. He had not spoken with her about what she was to do, and he could not conclude the odds of her following them or staying. If there was one thing the Order of the Cube taught him during his training as an agent, it was that the enemy he left behind was the enemy he'll have to face later.

Though somehow, in a pocket in his conscience, he believed she was no enemy. Another wisp of personal logic that was further fortified by his training.

Lionel turned his head slowly toward the other two behind him, making a crude signal. Zenith nodded, his oversized beard jerking every which way.

Mars, however looked quite unnerved, every step he took toward the walled internment camp's direction seemed to hold a vibe of pained reluctance.

Just as the clouds in the sky were opening up, ushering in sunlight, an eerie slow paced chanting was heard, all deep slurred voices enameled in evil. Lionel kept the pace, the sunlight pouring through the gapes in the treetops.

The heavy iron gate stood before them, the double door cracked open slightly, bearing the blue "L" of Lordaeron that was rusted and vandalized from time, the appearance being more of a lopsided "I". The chanting grew, and none, save Mars understood what it meant.

"Mars…" Lionel whispered, falling behind Zenith who maneuvered to check the gate. The human cocked his head toward the orc, who crouched and stared, sweat running down his brow. Lionel nudged the shaman firmly with his padded elbow, immediately feeling his body twitch before he removed the elbow from his side. "Mars… what's the chanting mean?"

He blinked biting the insides of his cheek gently. "It's trollish. For…" He gulped. "Come in and burn, tired young soul." He stood up slightly. "I fear that we shouldn't enter."

After pondering the meaning of the chant, he shook his head. "No, the tome is there, if we go in and take it, two thirds of my mission will be complete. I thought I'd be undertaking this mention for a month or two, but it may take an even shorter time than that… It's lucky enough that the tome happens to be he-"

"Enough…" Mars whispered, looking frustrated. "Just… watch your back in there. This internment camp was reserved for warlocks and practitioners of black magic."

Lionel nodded, then turned his head to Zenith, who couldn't seem to cram his armored head in far enough to check the inner area beyond the gate. Surprisingly, he did not curse out loud, but mental aggravation was usually evident in place of the dwarf's spoken profanities. Lionel crept behind the dwarf, tapping on his neck between his armor and head, where the wound Joanna gave him was. He flinched heavily, and gave Lionel a murderous glare.

"Zenith, let me go first." He whispered, his volume lower than it was when speaking to Mars, making sure he wasn't audible to whoever (or whatever) was behind the gate.

Zenith sighed, backing away, his hammer resting on his shoulder. "Lad, that chantin' gives me such cold chills that my nipples are hard."

Lionel rolled his eyes at the statement, the social skills of the dwarf never turning a leaf. "You'll be fine… just be ready to watch my flanks."

As Lionel applied pressure with his hands to the iron gate, the volume of the chanting amplified slightly, but noticeably, stopping Lionel in his tracks. He looked back at Zenith and Mars, the former having his shield and hammer held in a phalanx pose, and the latter crouched with his staff at the ready.

With that, Lionel applied all his might to push the gates open. Every inch the two massive slabs of iron moved seemed to drag in time, giving it a surreal moment. The thinking that some creature would be there to separate his head from his shoulders only added an unpleasant side dish to this dangerous action. Lionel's hands dropped to his sides quickly as the gates were open. His vision blurred, his ears ringing, he yanked out his warblade with a single hand.

He stood at an empty courtyard, the grass quite brown and sickly looking, and the buildings beyond weathering with decay.

The chanting had ceased as well, no evidence of it's source in sight.

Mars and Zenith stepped forward on either side, their eyes absorbing the sight around them. Nothing seemed out of place, but for the three, all being magic sensitive, knew better. The birds no longer sang, and the insects no longer chimed within the internment camp's walls. All that was left were the low howls from the wind.

Lionel kept his eyes fixated on the warden's keep for a short while and visually starting picking out anything out of the ordinary or completely obvious. The warm, unpleasant orc breath from the mouth of Mars blew down Lionel's neck, the presence of the orcs head altering, as if he was nervously shifting his head. "I would be absolutely joyful if we could find this book and leave, or just get the hell out of here altogether."

"Mars, just sit in a corner for a while and let me know when you've calmed down." Lionel did not want either to know that he felt just as terrified as they, and made sure that his head was turned away from them. "Or better yet, help me look for the damned thing."

"Damned… now that's a good word for you once you get your hands on that tome, laddie." Zenith piped, flinching while looking at one of the windows in the chapel, as if he thought he had saw something. "Proper fucked, too."

"Zenith, stop cramming obscenities into the prospect of the situation and check the barracks." Lionel tapped the nipple switch on his wrist bracer with his gloved index finger, the blade submerging under the ornate layer of metal. "Mars, if you would, see to the interior cells."

"And where are you heading?" Was Mars query, but Lionel had already taken a few steps forward.

"That keep has to have a chapel inside it."

"A perfect place to find a book about unleashing twisted demonic creatures into this plain of existence?"

"In this case, for certain."

The armored feet of Zenith made heavy pressed tracks on the partially muddied ground he tread on. Mars was soon to follow, his hide boots following more arid sections of the earthen floor. Around them they were flanked by various rectangular sections of cellular iron bars with broken chains scattered, as if made from a hasty break for liberty.

The clouds stood perfectly still above them, resting in the heavens like gawking spectators in a myriad of patterns like recklessly torn cotton. Zenith checked one of his flanks, bearing witness to Mars staring up at a large stockade and taking baby steps toward it. It was as if he was beckoned by a mysterious force, and soon enough he disappeared between the sides of its open door.

The interior of the stockade was reinforced wood, letting in rays of light between the wooden planks that seemed thick and realistic enough to slice with a knife. These rays of light were a milky white rather than a sunny golden, due to the exterior weather. As for the very interior that Mars stood in, his deerskin boots stood directly on a floor made entirely of aged and scattered hay.

He stared down a winnowing hall full of heavy wooden doors, sometimes metal, with square or rectangular slots at the top with metal bars etched to block whatever access attempted. The feet of the orc shaman seemed to be at the exact same pace as his mind as he closed distance within the stretch of the structure's hall. It was clear that these were solitary confinement cells, definitely for the detainees that had little or no interest in conforming to the internment camp's rules.

Mars' eyes dilated, his pupils like pinheads as he looked inside the empty cells. His breath quickened, his heart began to pound like a massive drum, and he collapsed, his feet instinctively allowed his back to face the wall as he fell to the hay, allowing minimal pain on the way down. The staff fell to his side as he clutched his chest and curled into a fetal position, attempting to regain his sanity and calm.

The doors to the keep were long behind him, the interior barely lit, save for the open windows. What was visible were several tables and chairs, scattered about as if the place was looted during the uprising. This furniture was fit for a noble, however, as the wood was a heavily polished yew and oak, and though the table cloths they had been through better days, were colorful and well crafted to an extent.

Lionel traveled further into the interior, spotting a chasm with a stone spiral staircase that led to the second floor. One gloved hand was kept firmly on the hilt of his blade, every ascending step a vigilant one. In this eerie place, the keep was certainly the most unnerving of all due to a low humming that throbbed within its walls.

Both dark and dank was the staircase he climbed, though before he knew it, his eyes had received the misty glow of the second floor. A sign above the door to his immediate front read "treasury" in thinning yellow paint, obviously where the warden and his men stored their funds. According to what Lionel read in history books and records, there were some internment camps that were headed by land owning nobles and some mercenary companies, but most of them were Alliance run backed by national taxes from human citizens and mining guilds. The mage assassin's knowledge of this subject made him rather curious to check the treasury and its records. It had been years since the camp was active, and if what Mars spoke of the ghost stories circulating around the outlining areas, than it may have been very likely that few people dared visit it after the uprising.

His less inquisitive side prohibited any unnecessary snooping around and knew his two comrades did not want to be here in the first place. Being the sympathetic man he was, he wanted anything the majority wanted. Though he shared the feelings of fear with Zenith and Mars on arrival, he desperately wanted to see this through.

As he wound the cobwebbed halls his mind eventually wandered to walking dead woman he met recently, Joanna Dartmouth as she claimed to be. As a reanimated corpse, her flesh seemed to be far less rotten and festering than the other undead humans, or Forsaken as they came to be known. Lionel noticed that her skin, particularly at least one of her cheeks were rather shiny, implying embalming fluid, a less common trait among the dead that walked the lands. He knew it was not the time to ponder what her intentions were, as she promised that she would follow far behind, and the following fatalistic warning by Zenith.

At that very moment, a balcony at the rightmost stretch of the hall caught his eye. Lionel made haste immediately to the opening. The following action granted him a clear view of the right side of the area, including the guard barracks, the stockade, and the exterior holding areas. The wind blew in his hair as his eyes caught a glint of armor below. Zenith was helping, or more like dragging Mars into the open from the stockade.

"Zenith, what the hell did you do to him?" Lionel called from above.

"He was havin' an episode when I found em'." Was the paladin's reply. He laid his hammer and buckler to the side as he dragged him to the middle of the yard, patting him on the back with his armored hand.

"I'm fine." The shaman coughed, catching his breath and beginning to stand up, his staff in hand. "I swear I'm fine."

Lionel hesitated, and ultimately did not respond. He merely nodded, his left hand waving them off before turning and reentering the interior of the keep. Checking the status of his party had helped him expand his situational awareness, even if the situation was that his two comrades were less than willing to linger around any longer in Lonely Ford.

The officer's mess as well as their quarters was the majority of the keep's section. Though the corner of Lionel's eye caught something crimson and menacing, glowing in and out like a throbbing stubbed toe. His eyes turned to face it, seeing a magic rune in plain view, a twisted character from the written orcish language burnt and stained on the wall with a spell. Having only elementary knowledge of orcish, he was certain he had little knowledge of how it was written.

Though he could not understand what the rune meant, it caught his attention to another room, this one with no door. At the angle he stood in, he could not tell what was inside, but he knew that more red glowing was present. Holding his breath, he gripped the war blade at his side and entered with great care.

It was the keep's chapel, a shrine dedicated to the practice of the Light, that would have been bearing the four thin pointed star behind the boxed cross on the altar in the center of the room. This aside, the chapel was more or less desecrated with demonic runes and graffiti scribbled up and down the walls, floor, and even ceiling. The circular stained glass window depicting the Bishops and famous paladins and priests of the decades and centuries past was vandalized rather heavily, most likely with rocks and other objects thrown through it. The chairs and benches were stacked like a spire, circles drawn around the floor where the bottom ones stood, with characters and symbols in and outside of the lines. The chandelier's candles were stripped from the frame, and instead, the skeletons of dead animals, most likely squirrels and mice were tied on and hung suspended from the metallic arms that held them. Inside their eye sockets were glowing jewels and other runes.

The chanting from earlier had just now resumed, most audible from outside the window now full of holes and cracks. Lionel's spine immediately flared with a cold chill that ran up and down, and his neck and the back of his head felt ticklish and prickly, suddenly getting the feeling that he was no longer alone. He checked every shadow in the hallway and in the room he was currently in, coming to the conclusion that he was not being watched at the moment.

His eyes averted to a pedestal in front of the altar, revealing a book or tome, its cover a material he could not even describe, looking like a cross between leather and metal. There was a buckle with the seal of the burning legion etched on the side, as well as several runic characters written on the edges of the cover. To conclude, it was primordially a bright red.

"ZENITH! MARS! I GOT IT!" Lionel screamed, making sure he faced the window when he did. With any luck, they would have heard him, he quickly grabbed the tome, feeling that he was rather on the hefty side and lugged it under his arm.

He had barely noticed that the chanting stopped just a moment sooner as he ran down the hallway, hoping to make an exit point out of his entry point. As he passed the treasury and hobbled down the stairs he came from, missing one step each, he began to seriously ponder the ramifications of what would happen now that he has the tome he was looking for. For all he knew, it may have not been it, though somehow he had a feeling it was.

The door was already open in the front of the keep, the ill kept yard around it lit with exterior light as he stepped inward and wounded around a corner. If anything, Mars would be the one to know how to pick up any puzzle pieces Lionel happened to miss, since the latter was certain that the former knew something of it. He knew not what, but it was somewhat evident.

Lionel suppressed his jaw, keeping it from dropping when he saw Zenith and Mars on their knees, stripped of their weapons and equipment with their hands over their heads. All around them stood approximately eight tall, slender, yet muscular specimens; dark green skin, body and face paint colored an oceanic blue. Their sported Mohawks and had noses in the shape of jalapeno or chili peppers, along with small tusks that stretched out of their bottom jaws. All of them were shirtless, wearing chaps, cargo pants, greaves, basket weave skirts, or loincloths. All were armed with either spear or axe.

"Forest trolls..." Those were not the only creatures present, as several scaled bug eyed creatures stood in the foreground bearing weapons made of corral and shields made of a large creature's shell. "…and Murlocs." He sighed.

"Drop those weapons, mon." A deep voice rumbled, its source Lionel believed to be coming from the tallest of trolls, wearing a mask, which was basically part of an ox's skull. His chest was painted as a skeleton, and he wore a necklace made from several bones and other body parts. He was most likely the high priest of the group, as his spear was rather more ornate than that of the others.

Two murlocs made sure he was firmly surrounded and cornered from behind so he could not flee back into the building, or near the gates of the camp. Whoever this band of thugs was, they had them zeroed in. He was not sure if they had just stumbled on these thugs, or if they had expected him. His mind, accustomed to training caused him to immediately assume the latter. Lionel's fingers found themselves unfastening his weapon belt, handing over the war blade to a murloc with arms outstretched. The repulsive creature's face contorted into a grin that bore a jagged razor edged smile. One of the slippery hands of the reptilian creature snatched the trinket from his hand, an iron grip on the length of the belt.

A brief and coy act of defiance, Lionel managed to flip an obscene gesture in the direction of the murloc before the lead troll spoke up yet again, his accent still rather thick. "What gives you the right to plunder that tome from our altar?"

"How long have you had it?" Lionel decided to create his own thread of questions if the troll priest was going to ask him what they were.

"It was you I questioned." The priest shook his head and stepped past a troll wielding two axes in each hand, making a steady beeline toward Lionel. "In that tome lies my, your, and every other beings destiny on this wretched world. Now why did you play the thief and lift it from the altar?"

"Better question, why am I certain you know the answer?" Lionel lifted a small sack in his left hand and poured its contents into his right. Four coins, identical to the ones he saw on the murlocs in the pinewood fell into the gloved palm. "Your murloc pals here aren't too vigilant."

The murloc that held his weapon belt suddenly groped at his own shoulder, just now noticing that his wallet was gone, and now in the hands of the human. The creature hissed, spraying a clear liquid every which way and lunged at the human. He was met with a strong arm that grappled his wrist, and thrown to the side.

The priest let out an unsatisfied huff and threw the spear down at its feet, the sharp head embedding itself in the earth. "Human… you're starting to anger me." The murloc who he threw aside stood up to his feet, gurgling rather angrily.

"Angered…" Lionel chuckled. "He gets angered after getting paid to ambush us."

"Lionel, I highly suggest that you don't play games with these people." Was Mars' inquiry from behind the priest. A kick to the chest from another troll made sure he would not speak until spoken to yet again.

"Who's paying you?" Lionel asked, throwing the coins at the direction of the priest, one bouncing off his tusk. "Tell me. I have a feeling you know who I work for, now lets try asking you."

The yellow eyes of the troll priest, looking rather annoyed and furious under the ox skull mask, fixated themselves on Lionel. His arm plucked the spear from the ground and brought the shaft of the spear into a horizontal swipe, hitting Lionel across the front of his thighs. The back tip of the weapon was then jabbed into his forehead, knocking him back on his rump.

"Now seeing is how I cannot kill you without consent of the presiding war lord. I should have to ask him since you won't cooperate." The troll then picked the tome up from the ground beside Lionel and stepped away, leaving the human glaring at him angrily.

Zenith spat on the ground. "Lionel, my idiotic friend, if we see outta this, then I swear on my children, that I will give you a swift punch between the thighs my good ma-" A troll smacked the hilt of his axe onto the dwarf's helmet, a loud banging sound that disoriented him and caused him to let out an angered grunt.

"Tral'Dek." The priest spoke to the warlord, who happened to be sitting down behind the rest of the group. "Stand up where I can see you." The priest pushed away the troll warriors that stood between them. He looked before the troll, seeing he was sitting against a low stone wall that connected to the exterior cages. "Tral'Dek, get up." The priest grabbed his shoulder and shook him, the troll going limp as he slumped to his side slightly. The priest withdrew his hand and looked at the tips of his fingers, wet with fresh blood.

A murloc behind the group screeched and flailed his arms in the air as a longsword stuck out of his gullet. The trolls had their axes and spears at the ready, staring down the slain murloc as he leaned over to rest his deadening body. From behind him was a pale woman in farmer's clothing, who yanked out a longsword from the back of the creature's skull and held to the side with both hands.

"Defend yourselves!" The priest yelled, charging at the woman along with half of the others in the force.

"Joanna…" Lionel smirked. He hadn't expected her to show at all. The mage assassin smacked his wrists together, baring the wrist blades which he drove both of them into the large eyes of the murloc to his side. It screeched like an angry bat, stepping back and dropping its weapons after Lionel withdrew both from them. Feeling presence behind him closing in, Lionel darted to the side and performed enough footwork to face the other murloc before his coral blade came down and smacked into the dirt. The creature brought its shield around, ready to smack it into Lionel, who ducked his torso under it, his legs dancing around the reptile in a twirl. Before anything else could be done, it felt one of Lionel's blades sink into his back. The annoyed murloc hissed in pain before repeating the process. Lionel jumping back this time, then quickly forward again as he drove his blade into the nose of the creature. Finally, Lionel began repeatedly jabbing into the murloc's face with the blades in swift motions, spraying his greenish blood all over his black leather armor before it finally buckled over.

Zenith leapt up and tackled the troll who had struck him before when he had his back turned, grabbing a hold of his legs and working his way to the top. He then clutched one of the axes in his hand and twisted the arm around, snatching the axe. "My uncle used to stack trolls like yah ten feet high back during the wars!" The dwarf bellowed, landing a haymaker blow on his upper back with the axe, the troll letting out a sound that resembled more of an annoyed roar than a cry of pain. He withdrew the edge from his back, blood sprinkling on his armor and face. "Hopefully I'll get the pleasure of telling him I did the same here in yer little pissing ground!" The axe landed on the back of the troll's head, splitting the skull wide open and killing him instantly.

Two murlocs and one spear wielding troll closed in on Mars as the shaman tried to snatch his staff which was thrown in a pile along with Zenith's shield and hammer. The orc dived into the pile, his clothes tearing on small pebbles and the axed back of the hammer before his hands both snatched the staff. Immediately, a static light began crackling and pulsating inside the head of it. The murlocs were too dull witted to give up the chase, but the troll's bare feet skidded to a halt as he released what Mars was about to do. Suddenly, a flash of light discharged from the staff, and a long bolt of lighting that looked as if it busted from the sky leapt at the front murloc. It convulsed violently, steam rising from its body not long after the bolt bounced to the other murloc, and then finally to the troll who attempted to flee.

Mars stood up, feeling a sense of triumph he had not felt in quite a while as he stared back at his dying subjects. Violent yells and thrashing were heard behind him, a stout armored figure rushing to the buckler and hammer. A troll was following him shortly, a spear and axe in each hand. The spear was chucked at Mars chest, which he parried with his staff, the edge of the weapon grazing his bicep.

The troll howled and brought his axe behind him, switching his focus on the dwarf. Zenith grasped his shield, turning his body to the side and holding his buckler up in an attempt to block the blow. The edge of the axe broke off into small pieces, and the troll lost his balance. It was not until long before his ribs were horribly smashed and crush by a few blows from the dwarven paladin's war hammer. Zenith had to jump to land each blow, as trolls were usually twice as tall as a dwarf. The troll gasped, blood pouring from puckered lips like a faucet as he felt up several spots of his battered chest, broken ribs jutting out of split skin. Zenith then viciously smacked the troll's knee, allowing it to fold the other way and letting him fall to the earthen floor, to die.

The troll Joanna had currently been fighting had his arm drop to the ground, and he gasped in pain and clutched the stump under his elbow. The undead woman quickly darted to the rear to avoid getting exposed by any other eager fighters. A murloc was sidestepping around him, almost in a circle strafe in a vain attempt to surround her.

The belt was thrown to the side, Lionel's war blade out as he sliced across the side of a murloc's head. His left wrist blade had the blade still extended, just in case he needed an extra edge. As the murloc fell before him, the priest had turned and spotted his movement, dropping the crimson tome at his ankle and holding his spear in a defensive position, as if hoping to parry any blow made.

The two began to sidestep around each other, Lionel winking and batting his eyebrows in a taunting manner. In an almost innocent gesture, the priest held a free hand up and snapped them, a blinding light then encompassing the human.

"Damn!" He yelled, his thumb and index finger touching his eyelids and he clenched them together. The priest must have put a blinding spell on him to give him the edge. The spells were always quite temporary, but Lionel could have a spear driven into his gut before he knew it.

Hearing the troll's movement was rather difficult considering the racket the other combatants were making, but he focused every fiber of his attention to track the movements of the now elusive priest.

There was a sudden rumbling of bare feet to his side, and Lionel darted forward almost in a flip until he fell on his side and rolled over. He looked above, seeing that he could now already see shadows forming out of the lack of light. From what he saw, the troll stood directly above him. Lionel held his left hand up, a layer of ice cold air and frost lining his hand as he slung a bolt of ice in the direction of the tall silhouette, which was now moving back toward him, the spear slung over his head.

There was a loud grunt that followed, followed by the shadow making pained noises at is seemed to clutch its side. Lionel picked himself up off the ground and squinted, making out lines and details that were starting to form back in his eyes. He saw a mass of frost embedded in the priest's side, paining him and slowing his movement as he limped back to him. The priest growled and thrust his spear in Lionel's general direction, not bothering to pick out a particular target limb. The human sidestepped gracefully and brought the blade down on the spear, just past the tip and severed the head off the shaft with a clang.

The troll gasped and let out a pained yell as he attempted to block any other blow. Lionel kicked him in the side of his knee, causing him to lose balance temporarily and leave himself exposed. Lionel then swept his mithril blade in a perfectly horizontal arc, his body spinning with it. The priest's belly was split open, intestines beginning to poke out. Lionel then leapt in the air and put his weight into a blow with his left wrist blade, which embedded itself deep into the neck. The priest stared in horror around him as he saw one of his fellow trolls take a hammer blow to the arm which fractured it horribly, then receive a slice across his spine from the undead woman's longsword that felled him entirely. Lionel then removed the blade from his neck and swept his warblade in a final strike in the opposite side of his throat.

As the body of the priest fell, his head already on the ground, Lionel still stood in his aggressive pose, panting and checking his surroundings in a tired manner. All of their assailants lay dead or dying, the latter which Joanna and Zenith were locating and finishing off with a merciful blow. He allowed his bloodied war blade to rest at his side as he went over to pick up the crimson tome that lay in the middle of the torn battlefield.

Mars, Zenith and Joanna all watched as Lionel wordlessly gathered the rest of his belongings and head for the gates. He stopped and looked behind him at the three. "Come! Lets head out!"

As he turned to walk away, Joanna was slightly offended that there was not even one ounce of praise coming from the man. "What a nice fellow he is." She spoke to Zenith who only glared back. "Doesn't even thank me for pulling him out of the fire."

Zenith snorted abruptly, let out a guttural hissing sound, and spat to the front of him. "Yeah, I should thank ye for almost trying to kill us, too." The dwarf stepped forward, following Lionel ahead of him.

Joanna returned her longsword to its scabbard and closely followed the dwarf. "You have a great sense of humor, you know that? I thought you paladins were supposed to-"

The voices became inaudible from the distance. Not that Mars would want to hear any more of it. Instead, he just stood and marveled at the absolute surrealistic air of the situation, a chill rushing down his spine. The air and howling wind seemed to have a lower pitch than before, just a constant low hum as he stared at the corpses on the ground, the trolls lying in pools of red blood, the murlocs in puddles of green. He then decided to follow the rest of his party, desperately wanting to put space from his self, and this wretched place.

* * *

_**Author's note: Chapter IX was on my laptop before it went rogue on me. Maybe I can see to it that I can recover it, but I'm not so sure, and I may have to rewrite it. Needless to say, this may take a while for me to update.  
**_


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